


In Peace We Lie

by mackillian



Series: Heed Our Words [2]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-27
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:53:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 90
Words: 557,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackillian/pseuds/mackillian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mysterious darkspawn plague the north while the search for Morrigan and answers to what happened with the archdemon's soul begins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“But some things cannot be repent,

Some coinage cannot be unspent,

When hearts are wagered, a fissure rent.”

— _Saga of Dane and the Werewolf,_ 4:85 Black

**Chapter 1**

**Malcolm**

Weisshaupt was _cold_.

The Blasted Hills were cold, the Hunterhorn Mountains were cold, the long-abandoned griffon aeries were cold, the Fortress was cold, and Maker help him, the Anders Wardens were even _colder_. 

Malcolm sat on a hard, wooden bench outside the First Warden’s study, wrapped tightly in his grey cloak, hood draped over his head, and doing his best not to shiver. He wasn’t doing a great job at it, either. Líadan paced nearby, her woolen cloak flaring around her body each time she turned within the tight confines of the hallway. When Malcolm hitched his cloak closer, she stopped her pacing and glanced over at him. “Poor Malcolm,” she said, a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “Can’t stand the waiting to be yelled at by the First Warden.”

“I’m not in trouble. I’m not the one who slept with Morrigan.”

Líadan arched an eyebrow.

“That night, anyway.” Malcolm cleared his throat. “And I’m not nervous, I’m cold.”

“You aren’t quaking in fear?”

He heaved a sigh. “No. I’m quaking in temperatures that are too low for human, dwarven, or elven habitation. Maybe even qunari.”

“So you say.”

Her scoff made him roll his eyes. She smirked at his expression and resumed her pacing. Thus annoyed, he continued his shivering. Líadan was only warm because she was pacing, but he wasn’t going to copy her. She’d tease him for that, too.

He’d lasted three days at Highever before he’d fled. The memories had pressed him too closely within the castle, and the notion that he had some other duty waiting for him outside the walls tugged at his mind as much as the taint did in the presence of darkspawn. With Fergus and Alistair, he’d seen Highever restored to the Couslands, and that particular duty fulfilled. More people had survived the massacre at the castle than they’d once thought, and the castle had been mostly restored to its prior state. The collapsed sections of stone and burnt timbers had been rebuilt. The acrid smoke that had stung his nose had long since gone and the fresh scent of sawdust left in its place. When he’d finally gotten enough courage to visit the larder, he’d found out that the entire floor had been replaced. No traces of blood remained on the granite stones underfoot. 

Eyes closed against the absence of physical evidence of his memory, he’d left the larder and hadn’t gone back again. Fergus spent much of his time with the staff who’d returned to the castle and meeting with the banns sworn to Highever who started to appear when they heard that the rightful teyrn had returned. Alistair had sat in on many of the meetings, providing the support and backing of the Crown. Malcolm had attended some, but found himself growing restless once again, just as he’d been in Denerim. Between the oppressiveness of the memories and the specter of the events at the end of the Blight, Malcolm felt the need to get out and just... go. Since part of his problems stemmed from the riddle that had been Zevran’s role in the archdemon’s death and Riordan’s non-death, Weisshaupt seemed like a good place. 

Malcolm had left a note for Fergus and Alistair, telling them he was going to Weisshaupt and he’d be back eventually. Because he was a solitary traveler, he managed to catch up to the cortège rather quickly, just south of Val Foret and the Nahashin Marshes. Líadan had caught up with _him_ barely north of Val Royeaux, just before they reached Montfort. She’d just appeared next to him around midday while they rode ever-northward toward Weisshaupt. At first, she said nothing and he hadn’t bothered to look, not having particularly bonded with any of the Orlesian Wardens who were also making the escorting trip. It was bad enough they insisted on stopping at every town and city in Orlais to announce they were escorting the body of the man who slew the archdemon Urthemiel, and then having Malcolm recount the story of the battle time and time again. All that storytelling pretty much wiped him out from holding meaningful conversations with his fellow Warden brothers and sisters, all ten of them who were with him.

After a few minutes, he’d realized the presence next to him was a familiar one and he’d finally bothered to look, only to find himself face to face with his Dalish friend’s determined green eyes. “What are _you_ doing here?” he asked.

His atrocious manners didn’t phase her in the least, though he hadn’t been surprised. Her manners were no better than his. At times, they were even worse. “They got your note. Riordan sent me.”

His brow furrowed. “Why you?”

She gave him a slight shrug. “I have longer legs than Oghren.”

Though they rode on horseback, she still had a fair point. He scowled. “Are you supposed to bring me back? I know you’re a mage and all, but I have the abilities of a templar. You’d have to try to drag me with brute force. I don’t think that’d work too well.”

“No. He told me to travel with you until you went back willingly.”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes and moved his gaze forward again. “So, he sent you to torture me until I give up and go home.”

“Pretty much.”

“And you had no problem with that order?”

“None at all.” 

He hadn’t even needed to turn around to confirm it. He knew she was grinning. And she’d been torturing him ever since. Around Montfort, they noticed they were starting to gain elevation rapidly. His knowledge of Thedas geography had come in handy when Líadan’s inevitable questions came about what places they were passing through and where they’d be riding through. This particular stretch of the Imperial Highway eventually ended at Andoral’s Reach, where they’d cross the Blasted Hills and cut through a pass in the Hunterhorn Mountains before swinging northeast on a straight shot to Weisshaupt. By the time they reached Churneau, Líadan visibly showed that she was starting to get cold. She denied whenever Malcolm asked, but even though her Dalish-made armor protected her in battle due to her rock armor spell, it did pretty much nothing against the cold. Finally, her shivering serving to make _him_ more cold, he dragged her off to the marketplace in Churneau to get her heavier armor with warmer, thicker padding underneath, and a better cloak than the one she had. Of course, she’d objected, he’d told her to shut it, and she glared at him nastily for days. 

But at least she’d stopped shivering.

A party of twelve Grey Wardens from Weisshaupt met them at Andoral’s Reach, replacing their compliment of Orlesian Wardens. That’s where he and Líadan found out that Anders Wardens weren’t particularly warm. They were polite enough and not mean in the least. Malcolm just started to wonder if they had any feelings other than gruffness and thoughts other than ‘all darkspawn must die.’ Not that he disagreed with that sentiment, but it just wasn’t the only sentiment that he’d ever had, even throughout the Blight. They’d probably find something wrong with that. He didn’t much care. They’d stopped the Blight without their help, so they could just shove it if they questioned his methods. Not that they really chatted with them enough to question things, anyway. Mostly, they kept to themselves and talked in Anders, which meant that he pretty much never understood what they were saying to each other. He had understood with the Orlesians, since he could speak Orlesian fluently, and he’d had a bit of fun with that for days before he told the Orlesian Wardens. But he knew nothing of Anders, and that left him to conversing with Líadan, which pretty much meant being teased for all his waking hours.

He started contemplating killing Riordan when they got home.

Gunnar put his heavy muzzle on top of Malcolm’s leg, bringing him to the present. The mabari had been none the worse for wear during the entire trip, given his thick coat of fur that kept him perfectly warm. Malcolm had been sorely tempted to just sit on the floor next to his hound and use the massive wardog for heat. Instead, he remained on the bench, Gunnar at his side, switching between watching over him and watching over the elf. And shivering, he couldn’t forget that. Did these people even know what a fireplace _was_? The Anders Wardens had spirited Zevran’s body off away somewhere within these cold corridors and left him and Líadan here to await their meeting with the First Warden. Well, Malcolm assumed Líadan would also be in the meeting, though from how she acted, she apparently assumed it would just be him. He also assumed it would be the First Warden, because being left here just had that certain foreboding aspect to it.

The heavy, wooden door opened and Malcolm shot to his feet. Líadan did an about face to look at the newcomer. A severe-looking woman stood in the doorway, her ash blonde hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head, her icy blue eyes piercing and, of course, cold. Maker, these people made Líadan seem cheery, and that was saying something, in his opinion.

“The First Warden wants to see you,” she said, her voice more friendly than he’d expected.

“That’s not surprising,” Malcolm said.

At the same time, Líadan asked, “ _Does_ he, now?”

He turned and glared at the elf. She merely gazed placidly back at him, daring him to try and scold her. With a sigh, he turned back to the Anders Warden. “Ignore her. I do.”

“Clearly, it gets you far.” The woman inclined her head. “I am Astrid, the Second Warden. You are Prince Malcolm, I assume?”

“Malcolm,” he said to correct her. “Just Malcolm. I’m not here as any sort of royal representative of Ferelden. I’m here as a Grey Warden, escorting my friend’s body to its final resting place.”

“Actually,” Líadan said from behind him, “he’s here as someone who practically ran away from Ferelden and princely duties as soon as the Blight was over.”

He fought against gritting his teeth. “What can I say? After being trapped in Ferelden fighting a Blight, I wanted to see the world. Or something of that nature.”

Astrid’s mouth twitched the tiniest bit. “Of course.” Then she extended her arm towards the now-open office. “If you would follow me, please.”

He managed to fling a glare Líadan’s way as they followed the Anders woman into an austere study. The vaulted ceiling was high enough that their booted footsteps echoed within the well-lit room. Closer inspection of the room revealed a few exceptional landscape paintings, along with some small, exquisitely carved statues decorating the room. There were, of course, various swords and spears and other martial items on the walls along with the paintings, but it was obvious a man who appreciated art worked within the space. A large fireplace occupied nearly an entire wall, and Malcolm had to stop himself from running over to it and getting as close as he could without burning anything. Gunnar and Líadan, however, had no such inhibitions and scampered right over to the fire. Malcolm held in a sigh he really wanted to direct at the two traitors, but instead looked over at the older man he assumed to be the First Warden. 

He was tall—taller than any man Malcolm had ever met—and by his silvery hair and worn lines in his pale skin, was older than his father or Duncan had been when they’d died. He idly wondered if the solemn man was close to his Calling, but it wasn’t something you could tell just by looking at a Warden. After all, they could be recruited at any age, not just young like he and Líadan had been. The man wasn’t wearing armor, which came as a surprise to Malcolm. Then again, neither was the Second Warden. Instead, he wore simple, yet elegantly tailored clothing in Grey Warden colors, the Warden Commander symbol of two griffons addorsed embroidered on the chest of his jerkin. Malcolm supposed they didn’t see much in the way of darkspawn up here in the mountains, especially not lately, what with the Blight and all being in the south of Ferelden. The older man glanced at Astrid. “You may go.” The Second Warden nodded wordlessly and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Then the older man turned to Malcolm. “I am First Warden Georg. And I presume you are Prince Malcolm Theirin?”

This time, Malcolm did grimace. “It’s Malcolm,” he said quietly. “I’m not here as a representative of Ferelden’s royal family. I’m here as a friend and a Grey Warden, that’s all.” Part of him even wanted to amend his name somehow with Cousland, because he missed that part of his heritage. Bryce and Eleanor Cousland had raised him and even made him an heir in case anything happened to Fergus. But fate had other ideas about what exactly he’d inherit and he’d had to give up the Cousland name. Though, as Fergus and every other Highever survivor had repeatedly told him, he was still one of their own and still part of the family. They had also adopted Alistair and treated him no differently than Fergus or Malcolm. It made a nice break from court, that much was certain, being in Highever. As Bryce had run the castle before, and Fergus continued, they didn’t stand much on ceremony. The servants and knights and soldiers treated them with respect and some deference, but also treated them like normal people when it was needed. They always gave honest opinions—there was never a place for a sycophant in a Cousland household. If one of them was an ass, they called them on it, lord and ruler or no. 

Alistair had called it a blessed relief and hoped that one day court could be like that. Fergus had told him not to get his hopes up for that occurrence. Ever.

Georg inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement and motioned for Malcolm to take a seat. “Be that as it may,” he said, dropping into his own chair, “King Hagan of the Anderfels has requested there be a feast held in your honor to welcome the Ferelden King’s brother to this country. A state dinner, if you will. As the Grey Wardens encourage political cooperation when it benefits the Wardens, I would advise you act in all capacities while you are here, Malcolm.”

Malcolm, now seated, raised an eyebrow. “Advise me or order me to do so?”

“Need I make it an order?”

“No, of course not.” He’d already gotten the answer he was looking for, anyway. No need for him to be this oppositional of the First Warden’s authority. He didn’t even know why he did it at times—some people just incited that reaction within him. Georg, it seemed, even worse than Eamon. But, he would behave. The man had become First Warden for a reason, and in that, deserved his respect. He was also interested to see if what Riordan had said about the Weisshaupt Wardens was still true: that they ruled more so than the offical sovereign of the Anderfels did. Seeing them interact with King Hagan would certainly tell him the truth of that circumstance. 

Georg nodded. “Good. And the fellow Warden you brought with you is?”

Malcolm reflexively glanced over at the elf. She looked up from her contemplation of the toasty warm flames and toward the First Warden. “I am Líadan Mahariel,” she said. 

“Mahariel? I didn’t even know you had a last name,” Malcolm said, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. Of course, he didn’t know the last names of almost everyone he’d traveled with in the Blight, or if they even had them in the first place. Wynne, Leliana, Oghren, Riordan, Morrigan... any of them. He’d heard that Grey Wardens gave up family names and titles, but somehow, he thought it was more of an option than a requirement, especially with the whole notion of he and Alistair taking on the roles of Ferelden’s royalty as ordered by the Grey Wardens deal.

Líadan smirked at him. “You never asked. Besides, to those outside the clan, the Dalish use the names of their clans to differentiate themselves from other clans. Mine was the Mahariel clan, obviously.”

“Yes, obvious _now_. Your Keeper Marethari never mentioned it, either.”

“Did you ask her?”

She was making fun of him, he knew it. He’d fallen into one of her traps again. He suddenly missed Alistair. His brother had taken part of the brunt of Líadan’s twisted humor and he was getting tired of suffering the full effects of it. Though, he had only himself to blame for it. Well, and Riordan, because while Malcolm knew he’d run off, the Warden Commander had sent Líadan after him on purpose. He’d come to learn during the Blight that Riordan could be a sneaky bastard like that. “No,” Malcolm finally said.

“Maybe you should ask more questions, then.”

“Maybe you should—”

The First Warden cut him off. “Traditionally, Grey Wardens give up their surnames.” 

Realizing that he’d nearly degenerated into one of his now practically trademark arguments with one of his close companions, Malcolm turned to look at Georg again. “I’d heard that. But, the Wardens kind of made my brother and I take up the last name and legacy of our dead, royal father.”

A smile tugged at the First Warden’s lips, the first hint of humanity Malcolm had seen from an Anders Warden since they’d met up with the group at Andoral’s Reach. Perhaps these people weren’t all bad and horribly dour. “All right, I’ll give you that one,” Georg said, with what looked like a spark of warmth in his deep brown eyes. “And you are much like Duncan and Riordan said in their letters.”

“He gets that a lot,” Líadan said.

Malcolm didn’t deign to look at her this time. He refused to give her the satisfaction.

“I suspect that he does,” Georg said to the elf, and then motioned toward Gunnar. “And your dog is a purebred mabari?”

Gunnar barked in reply himself instead of Malcolm having to answer.

The ghost of a smile on Georg’s face twitched again. “Ah, yes. As intelligent as I remember. Of course, I haven’t met one since I was a young man, but one cannot forget how fine an animal a mabari is.”

Gunnar barked again. 

Malcolm smiled and voiced his surprise at the First Warden’s reaction to his dog, which was far from typical. “I think you’re the first person to regard Gunnar nicely since we left Ferelden. I honestly hadn’t expected that. The best he usually gets is fear, the worse being contempt.”

“Which Gunnar quickly helps in providing an attitude adjustment for,” said Líadan, “often with teeth.”

Though the elf generally made herself a pain to Malcolm, he had to give her credit in that she was one of the few who truly revered Gunnar as much as he did. Líadan had once explained to him that the mabari had a relationship with their imprinted masters as the halla did for the Dalish. The entire conversation that followed had been interesting and enlightening in learning something about Dalish culture, and even gave some reasons for why Líadan acted in the ways that she did. He’d been grateful for the opportunity to learn about her, as well, because more than anyone he knew, she was a mystery to him. Her words and actions confounded him some of the time, and drove him to distraction most of the rest. 

“I have seen that in action,” said the First Warden, and then he turned to Malcolm. “As for last names, yes, it is a tradition, but it has never been mandatory. For most Wardens, it’s a relief to let go of the past life, especially when a Warden has a less than illustrious past. I know that when I joined, I myself was happy to give up my surname. It carried far too much weight.”

“You’re a conscript, too?” Líadan asked. “What’d you do?”

Malcolm’s eyes widened slightly in alarm, even though he’d been impertinent to the First Warden just minutes before. His own bad example, he supposed. Yet, Líadan was three years his senior in age. In some ways, she should be setting the example. Yes, the blind leading the blind, they were. Neither of them were particularly well-behaved even at the best of times.

Georg laughed outright at the question and relief surged through Malcolm. “Oh, no. I was a volunteer. You see, my last name was Van Markham, a particularly noted name in my native Nevarra.”

“I don’t understand,” Líadan said. 

Malcolm turned to explain. “The Van Markhams are the ruling family of Nevarra. The first king of that family, Tylus, was crowned in 5:37 Exalted, five years before Calenhad Theirin united the Alamarri teyrnirs and became the first King of Ferelden.”

She nodded her thanks for the answer as the First Warden said, “I see that you were well-educated. I was the fourth son of the king’s brother and stood to inherit nothing. My choices were the Chantry or the army. After spending five years in the army and finding myself wanting something more substantial, I joined the Grey Wardens. My relatives were actually pleased, because that made one less possible heir to contend with. The Van Markhams have entirely the opposite problem of the Theirins—too many heirs. Though, we didn’t have an Orlesian usurper kill off every member of the royal family that they could, so there’s that.”

“The Couslands have the same problem as the Theirins now, too,” Malcolm said before he knew he was going to say it. Even though he’d put thousands of miles between himself and Highever, apparently it wasn’t going to stay far from his mind. 

“I heard about that. I’m sorry,” Georg said. “The Couslands were well-known and admired in Nevarra and the Free Marches. I daresay, even I had heard of them. For me, it was mostly in history books when I read about the Ferelden Rebellion, though. Since Nevarra has fought Orlais so much, there were lot of admiring Nevarrans when it came to the Fereldan rebels.” He stood up. “But enough of that, no need to be more somber than necessary here. The Anders more than make up for that on their parts.”

Following the First Warden’s example, Malcolm got to his feet. “You noticed that, did you?”

Georg raised an eyebrow. “How could I not? I have been here at Weisshaupt for many years now, but for one who is not Anders, it is very hard to get used to.” He gestured toward one of the statues and a couple of the paintings. “I do what I can to liven up the place, but there’s only so much one can change. Wardens from other nations assigned here will tell you much the same.” He looked at Líadan. “I’ve heard about your particular magical talent with arms and armor, as well. If you wouldn’t mind, at some point during your stay here, and you are amenable to it, I would love for you to teach the mages here who are willing to learn. It seems it would be an invaluable art.”

The elf nodded. “Certainly.”

Malcolm couldn’t stop the surprise at Líadan’s acquiescence from appearing on his face. She smirked at him when she saw it.

“And Malcolm,” the First Warden said as he moved from behind the desk and indicated they follow him out of the office, “I heard that you possess some templar abilities that are useful against emissaries?”

“Yes, my brother taught me. I think against the Grand Cleric’s wishes, but he didn’t say, and I don’t think he much cared at that point.” All three of them were able to walk next to each other, as the hallways were wide enough to accomodate even four abreast if need be.

“Then you wouldn’t mind teaching some of the warriors here?”

Malcolm had to admit that the man was good at his job. “Not at all.”

“Excellent. Not today, of course. You’ve just arrived after a long journey. Though you’ve been shown your rooms and able to bathe, I suspect you’d like a hot meal and some well-deserved rest?”

“Creators, _yes_ ,” said Líadan. “I’m starving.”

Georg laughed again, a relief to hear in these stark, grey halls of Weisshaupt with its warmth and good nature. Malcolm was reminded of Duncan and Riordan. He’d expected a much different man, someone with the cold, near-silent countenance like Astrid. Instead, so far the First Warden seemed a kind, understanding leader. But, being a Warden, Malcolm knew there would be steel in the man somewhere, and he’d be seeing the sharp end of it soon when it came to explaining what Morrigan and Zevran might have done, along with his own role in the entire matter. More than once he wondered just how much was his responsibility and not Zevran’s. Most likely, he should and could have done something more than just refuse her. What, though, he wasn’t entirely sure. But he was fairly certain the Wardens here would have more than a few ideas of their own on what he should’ve done. 

As the First Warden walked them through the fortress towards the dining hall, he continued chatting with them about Weisshaupt and its history, intertwining it with the history of the Grey Wardens. Líadan listened more raptly than Malcolm, as she’d not heard most of it, while Malcolm had learned about the Grey Wardens as a child, both in school and through bedtime stories. “I’ve never served with a Dalish elf,” Georg said. “Met a few, but never worked with them closely.”

“Be happy for that,” Malcolm muttered, thinking more of Líadan rather than the Dalish in general. The elf in question punched him in the arm for his comment. He felt it through his heavy chainmail and suspected she’d quickly cast rock armor before letting her fist fly in case he tried to retaliate in kind, and for better penetration through his armor. He grimaced and rubbed at the sore spot on his arm. “Okay, I deserved that.”

“You’re just lucky I didn’t give you a little lightning with that,” she replied, a scowl marring her features.

“Zap me again and I’ll smite you. I’m not kidding. I’ll take rock armor, but not lightning.” On seeing an idea spark behind the elf’s eyes, Malcolm quickly said, “Or fire.”

“You two _are_ young,” Georg said before Líadan could attempt a retort. “Reading the letters that come in and knowing what you’ve accomplished in this past year, one easily forgets just how young you are. Not that it’s a bad thing, really. Maker knows having younger Wardens around this place would do it some good, I think. Then again, this place could have a detrimental effect on young people. Better we keep them in the outlying areas, I suppose, rather than that happen. Wardens age too quickly as it is. And I’m not talking about the taint giving us a slow but sure march towards our deaths. I’m referring to the mental aging, which I already see in both of your eyes. You’re young, yes, but you’ve seen enough death and suffering and sacrifice for three lifetimes, if not more.”

Malcolm wasn’t sure if they were being chastised or complimented, so he just kept his mouth shut. Next to him, Líadan did the same, for once.

The First Warden slowed to a halt before two large, wooden double doors. “Ah, here we are. This room serves as both our meeting hall and our dining hall. Dinner will be served in a few minutes and we’ve a lot of Wardens here at the moment. Over five hundred, in fact. For two Wardens from Ferelden, it might be somewhat overwhelming. I’ll have both of you sit at my table, which, I suspect, though I’m First Warden, might be a bit less intimidating. A few other Wardens will sit with us, my second, of course, and a good mix of Anders and Wardens from other countries.” Then he pushed the doors open, revealing a room rivaling the size of the Orzammar Commons in its vastness. Considering how many it seated per meal, it made sense, though that fact made it no less impressive. Blue and grey banners bearing the rampant griffon hung from the rafters in rows mirroring the long tables below. The room thrummed with conversation from several seated or milling Wardens. Never in Malcolm’s thoughts had he imagined this many Wardens could exist in one place. At one time in recent history, the most he could gather in one place had been two. At peak, after Ostagar and before the Orlesian reinforcements came in, Ferelden boasted all of six Wardens, and one of them wasn’t even officially assigned to their country. Well, now he was, but he hadn’t been then. 

Men and women in the dining hall slowly turned around as the doors opened, and the room fell silent. Malcolm noticed Líadan stiffen next to him at the sudden attention from all of those strangers. He nearly gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder, but refrained, figuring she’d just give him a black eye or something worse for his efforts. Georg had them keep following him to a table set up on a dais. Once there, the First Warden turned to the rest of the room. “Wardens, we have two Wardens visiting us from Ferelden—” Anything else he might have said was lost in a surge of cheering. Both Malcolm and Líadan gaped as their brother and sister Wardens, so stoic before, whooped and hollered and clapped. Noticing the confusion of the two young Wardens, Georg leaned over and quietly said, “They’re cheering because you defeated the Blight.”

“Oh, that,” Malcolm said. “Slipped my mind. Blights do that sometimes. You’d be surprised.”

The First Warden smiled, and then called for silence. He motioned toward Líadan first. “This is Líadan of the Mahariel clan of the Dalish.” Then he indicated Malcolm. “And this is Prince Malcolm Theirin of Highever in Ferelden.”

To his horror, Malcolm felt a flush flash to his cheeks, certainly the worst flush he’d had in months. Years, even. He tried to will it away and it just made it worse. 

“Your cheeks might catch fire,” Líadan said, her face perfectly composed, if a bit pale behind her tattoos.

“Shut up.”

Kindly not commenting on Malcolm’s sudden change in color, the First Warden told the room to eat, bringing the murmurs and assorted cheers to an end for the time being.

As Malcolm gratefully took his seat, Georg leaned over and said, “Your father turned much the same color when he visited Weisshaupt and was announced to the Wardens. So, you’re in good company.”

It didn’t make him feel any better.

Then the First Warden started around the table, introducing the other Wardens sitting with them. Malcolm listened, matching names with faces and, he hoped, committing them to memory. His attention drifted from Warden to Warden, sometimes ahead of Georg’s introduction. When his gaze fell on the Warden sitting at the end of the table, the familiarity of her eyes nearly caught him short and he had to force himself back to whom the First Warden was talking about. But the woman at the end of the table had the same eyes as his elder brother Alistair. So, when Georg finally said, “And this is Senior Warden Fiona, originally from Orlais many years ago,” Malcolm wasn’t surprised in the least.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

“The weakness of mortal will is the great failing of all the Maker’s children. We trade our honor as if it were the cheapest of currency. We do not understand what integrity is or what it is truly worth. From this ignorance, original sin was born.”

—Divine Renata I _, Sermon on Integrity_

**Malcolm**

Not awkward in the least.

After a meal that had practically tested all of his reserve in his attempts to not look over at Fiona, the person who was supposed to be his natural mother, Malcolm had practically fled from the dining hall. Except he hadn’t paid enough attention to where he was going, either before, when they’d arrived at the fortress, or after, when being escorted to the dining hall, and now he was lost. 

Sort of. He knew where he was: Weisshaupt Fortress. But his knowledge of his exact location ended right there. Malcolm halted in one of the corridors that pretty much looked like every other corridor in the fortress and stared at the wall, wondering what he should do. He wasn’t even sure if he could find his way back to the dining hall, much less his room. Malcolm sighed and glanced down at Gunnar. “Any ideas?”

Gunnar whined. 

Fearsome warhound, not so much a great tracker, that was his mabari. “Of course not. You know, as a boy, I was once told that if I got lost, I should stay in the same place so someone could find me. Granted, that meant someone would have to be looking for me in the first place, which I’m not sure about in this case. You know, we could be lost forever in these hallways, doomed to wander the corridors of the famed Weisshaupt Fortress, eventually becoming ghosts of a Grey Warden and his faithful companion—”

The dog let out a bark and ran off. 

Malcolm stared in the direction his dog had run. “Or not.” He sighed again and sat down against the wall, cloak gathered around himself, moping at being abandoned by his dog while he followed his own advice at staying put. He’d sleep here if he had to. He had a meeting with the First Warden in the morning to talk about the Blight and the archdemon. If he didn’t show up for that, they would be sure to send out a search party. Maybe. Or, happy to be rid of him, Líadan would make up some sort of story about him running off outside, and he’d never be seen again. 

Then he heard Gunnar’s distinctive bark and jumped to his feet. The hound loped around the corner, followed by Líadan and another elf. At first, Malcolm was thrilled to see his friend, who had a better sense of direction and probably wasn’t lost, and then he noticed that the other elven Warden mage he knew of was with her. Suddenly, he wanted to be lost in the corridors again. 

“Lost, I take it?” Líadan asked, a smirk yet again plying at her mouth.

“Of course not. I know where I am. Weisshaupt,” he said indignantly, knowing full well she’d see right through his sham.

“Well then, I suppose I can leave you to find your room all by yourself.” Líadan turned to leave. What really stung was that Gunnar kept right on her heels, as if he’d leave him, too.

Malcolm knew instantly if he didn’t say something, Líadan actually _would_ leave him behind and not feel bad in the slightest. The notion distinctly reminded him of someone else he’d once known, one oft-prickly witch of the wilds. “Okay, okay, I admit it,” he said, employing the most pitiful tone of voice he could muster. His elven friend had to have mercy in her somewhere. She was nice to small children, which was a good sign for having mercy, or even pity. “I’m lost. And tired and miserable and have I mentioned that it’s cold here? So, please don’t take my dog and leave me alone to wander these halls forever. ”

Líadan turned back around, lips pursed in thought. “I can show you the way back to your room.”

He narrowed his eyes and forced himself not to cross his arms. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch.”

“I don’t believe you. It isn’t like you to just... agree like that with only minimal attempts at coercion on my part. You’re up to something.” He pointed at her. “I’m on to you.”

Líadan rolled her eyes even as she motioned for him to follow. “I’m not up to anything. Come on. I’ve got mage stuff to talk about with Fiona, but so we don’t bore you, we’ll refrain until we’ve dropped you off.”

He’d nearly forgotten that Fiona was there, she’d been so quiet and still. Remarkable, really. His eyes flicked to the other elf and quickly went back to Líadan. “I don’t care what you say. I still think you’re up to something devious.” And because Líadan had offered to keep quiet about mage things, it meant that the conversation would be lacking, and he’d be doing everything possible to keep from blurting out that Fiona was his mother and launching into the five hundred or so questions he had for her. To keep himself from doing so as they walked, he forced himself to make conversation with Líadan. “So, I’m thinking of growing a beard.”

Líadan’s head snapped around to look at him in askance. “Why would you do a thing like that?”

He shrugged. “To keep my face warm. I’m not sure if you were paying attention when I mentioned it before, but it’s bloody cold here.”

“Just so you know, if you grow a beard, it will make me completely ineffective in combat.”

It was his turn to look at his friend in askance. “Why’s that?”

“I’ll be too busy laughing to do anything else.”

He scowled and glared at the corridor ahead. “I hate you so much.”

“What was that?” Líadan asked in a singsong voice.

Fiona snorted in laughter. The only thing that kept Malcolm from closing his eyes in embarrassment was that he had to pay attention to where they were going or he’d get lost again the next day. Neither of them had admitted that Fiona was his mother, but Maker help him, she was already laughing at him. Maybe she wasn’t his mother. Maybe she was just other random elven Orlesian Grey Warden mage. They had to have a lot of those since they had plenty of Orlesians. And plenty of Wardens who fit that particular description. And had that name. Yes, it absolutely had to be just a coincidence.

He kept his mouth shut after that and it wasn’t until they stood outside his appointed room that Líadan gave her price for the leading. “And for that,” she said, “Gunnar sleeps in my room tonight. That furball gives off heat like you wouldn’t believe. You don’t even have to keep the fireplace stoked.”

“What? Ha! I knew it. I knew there was a catch.” He swiveled to look down at his dog. “And you’re just going to stand for this, are you? No argument at all? You’ll just ditch me for Líadan once again?”

Gunnar barked.

Malcolm scowled at the hound. “You traitor. Between all that scrap begging you did at dinner—which, by the way, was conduct seriously unbecoming a wardog—and then ditching me in the hallways, you agree to her terms?”

And the hound barked his positive reply.

He threw up his hands. “Fine, I see how it is. You hang out with her and I’ll just cry myself to sleep, mired in my misery, all because you like her better than me.”

“It’s only because I’m prettier than you. I’m certainly not any nicer,” said Líadan. 

Malcolm narrowed one of his eyes at his fellow Warden. “I suppose I can’t argue with that one.” He didn’t point out that his friend _was_ rather easy on the eyes, because she’d probably just punch him for it, even though she’d been the one to bring it up. “Okay, whatever. Goodnight. I’m going to bed. Cold and alone.” Before Líadan could tease him more and give Fiona another chance to laugh at him, he slipped into the room and closed the door. It wasn’t until he was safely in his room that he realized how his statement could’ve been taken. “Oh, for Andraste’s sake. She’ll never let me live that down.” Scowling all the more, he hurriedly built a fire in the cold fireplace and waited for the room to heat up. As he waited, he took stock of the lodgings he’d been assigned. It was on the small side, though that didn’t bother him. It was also fairly bare and contained only a few items. Little table, large enough for two, perhaps three if they squeezed, probably for use in taking meals alone or paperwork. A bed, a chair, a washstand with an empty stone basin, which wouldn’t be much good for washing. He supposed he could make a trip to where the baths and privies were in order to fetch water, but that would defeat the purpose of having a washstand in your room, really, once you’d made the trip.

He moved closer, inspected the basin, and found a dwarven rune inscribed on the inside. Biting his lower lip, he started to trace the rune with his finger, and drew his hand back in surprise when the bowl filled with clear, fresh water. “Dwarves are _awesome_ ,” he said to himself. They should have these things everywhere. If the dwarves sold them to surfacers, they could make a killing. If he weren’t a Grey Warden, he’d have tried to do it himself. Of course, were he not a Grey Warden, the dwarves wouldn’t let him into Orzammar for that reason, and he wouldn’t even know about the runes in the first place. But still. The dwarves were damn clever. After happily washing up, Malcolm fell quickly into bed and a deep sleep in the pleasantly warm room.  

Morning dawned with someone pounding on the door and shouting his name. Malcolm tried yelling at them to go away and let him sleep, and instead, the door opened to allow Gunnar inside to wake him up. Two hundred insistent pounds of slobbery dogflesh drove him out of bed and he could hear Líadan laughing just outside the door. He quickly washed up, dressed and armed himself, and stepped out of the room, still bleary-eyed. “You couldn’t let me sleep?” he asked as soon as he saw her.

She straightened from leaning against the wall. “No. I was hungry and I realized that if I didn’t bring you with me, you’d end up lost in the griffon aeries or something when you tried to find the mess hall on your own.”

“My sense of direction isn’t that bad.”

Líadan gave him a look that told him otherwise.

“Whatever. This place is abnormally large. They should hand out maps or something.” When Gunnar shoved his large head underneath his hand, he gave the dog a good morning scratch behind the ears, even though he’d abandoned him the night before. Líadan rolled her eyes and motioned for him to follow. “You’re supposed to come with me to meet with the First Warden, by the way,” he said, both to remind her and to make conversation to head off any awkward silences. 

“I know. And after, I’m meeting with Fiona to start going over the arcane warrior talent with her and see if any of the other mages here would be open to and benefit from learning the skill,” Líadan replied. “They’ll probably want you to work with people on templar stuff at some point, too. You can keep well away from me when you do that; I’m of no mind to have you smite me.”

“I still owe you a smite, you know, from that lightning you hit me with in the Deep Roads.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“So you did.”

“Oh, I see where you’re going with this,” she said, not bothering to turn around. “You’re going to point out that you never technically accepted my apology. And maybe even insinuate that I only apologized because Riordan set us up on the same watch.”

“Actually, I was agreeing with you that you’d apologized and that I should stop holding it against you. But if you’re saying that you only apologized because Riordan pretty much told you to, then I’ll just keep holding it against you and wait for the right opportunity to smite you.” He’d really forgiven her ages ago for the lightning-laced shove, but he really didn’t think he’d ever tire of giving her shit for that and pretty much every other thing she’d done to him since then. Not that she didn’t do the exact same thing back to him. In fact, if either of them were entirely nice to the other, both they and everyone who knew them would be completely confused and probably assume they were both possessed. And probably be right.

“You and are I sparring later,” Líadan said.

Malcolm’s eyes widened in surprise at the command. “ _Are_ we?”

“I’m not letting that comment pass unchallenged. So it’s you and me, practice yard, no magic from me and no templar tricks from you, a single longsword each and we go until someone gives up. Or until an impartial party, to be determined, decides that we need to stop. It doesn’t have to be today, since I don’t know if we’ll have time. But it can be tomorrow or the next day or whenever. Just before we leave here and go back to Ferelden.”

“That’s assuming we go back to Ferelden. Maybe I’d like to travel.”

That made her turn to face him, even as she kept walking in the direction of the dining hall. “Travel?”

He’d thought about it even as he accompanied Zevran’s body to Weisshaupt. Once they were done here, he could strike out on his own for a while and visit places he’d only read about. There was the Merdaine, with its gigantic statue of Andraste carved into the cliffs, her outstretched hands bearing eternal flames, and that was due west of Weisshaupt, only days away, depending on the weather. A good place to start. “Yes. The Merdaine, Par Vollen, Minrathous, Tallo’s Eye, the Donarks, Laysh and the Volca Sea, maybe the Tirashan, and the Urthemiel Plateau seemed particularly appropriate.”

Líadan arched an eyebrow. “Wow, when you run away, you really don’t mess around.”

“I’m not running away. It’s called exploring.” 

“It’s running away, however you spell it. Like it or not, you’ve got a lot waiting for you and no amount of ‘exploring’ is going to make it go away. You’re going back to Ferelden and I’m going with you. Granted, I don’t know _when_ you’re going back, but you are. And Riordan ordered me to stay with you until you do.” She turned back around, giving Gunnar a pat on the head as he bounded to her side.

“I can’t imagine what you must’ve done to irritate Riordan so much that he’d give you this particular assignment,” Malcolm replied as he finally started to recognize his surroundings. If he wasn’t mistaken, they were finally getting close to the dining hall, and he even caught whiffs of breakfast on the air in the hallway.

“I requested the assignment,” said Líadan.

Malcolm wordlessly stared at her, his feet sliding to a halt as he did so. But she didn’t turn to face him after her last comment. Instead, she pushed through the doorway in front of them and left him behind, alone in the corridor. After a moment, he collected himself and followed his friend into the gargantuan mess hall, still trying to figure out why in all of Thedas she would’ve requested to follow him. The most plausible theory he could come up with is to torture him. Or... no. It might not be about him at all, it could be about Zevran. Perhaps she and Zevran had been closer than he’d thought, though he’d assumed that his old friend would’ve mentioned any sort of relationship with his fellow elf. Maybe he’d just have to accept the fact that, most of the time, Líadan made no sense whatsoever, and it would only hurt his brain to try to keep figuring her out.

Continuing to cast her curious looks, he sat with her at a table near the back, hoping to escape the notice of the other Wardens. They didn’t. More than a few of the less stand-offish Wardens sat with them, plying them with question after question about the Blight. Turned out all Wardens had had dreams of the archdemon, not just the ones who were in close proximity to said archdemon. There were also a few newer Wardens, ones who had Joined while the Blight was still ongoing in Ferelden, and suffered the same intensity of dreams that Malcolm and Líadan did. They, also, had heard the song during their First Dream, the one every Warden had right after partaking of the darkspawn and archdemon blood concoction. Astrid, the Second Warden, eventually found them and shooed off most of the other Wardens. Then she escorted them to see the First Warden. Another group of Wardens followed, very Senior Wardens, Astrid explained, ones in charge of certain areas of training and knowledge. There was the now-familiar Fiona, who oversaw the mages, Hildur, a dwarven woman who headed up training for the rogues, and finally there was Marius, a Tevinter man who watched over the warriors. Then there were a couple scribes and a few other scholars, all of whom seemed very interested in the forthcoming meeting.

Malcolm, who hadn’t been nervous previous, started questioning himself and feared this gathering audience would be doing the same to him very soon. Astrid ushered the party into Georg’s study, where Malcolm discovered many more chairs had been brought in for the meeting. He exchanged alarmed looks with Líadan, both of them realizing this could be a very tough question and answer session. He knew it would be more so for him than her, because she hadn’t joined the Grey Wardens until at least half a year after Ostagar. Still, she’d been present at the end, both the night before the final battle with the archdemon, and in the battle itself. She’d witnessed Zevran clip the archdemon’s wing, and with him, she’d witnessed Riordan take the final blow—and not die. And if Malcolm was correct, he figured Riordan was a bit cranky about having not died, and not just because of the whole unknown aspect of where that Old God’s soul really was. Because Riordan hadn’t died from that final blow, it meant that within the next year, he’d have to go on his Calling, a death certainly more drawn out and nasty than dying from an annihilated soul. At least, they all assumed that sort of death would be ‘clean,’ so to speak. At any rate, it would’ve been faster instead of battling endless waves of darkspawn until you couldn’t lift your sword anymore and one of them decided to chop off your head. And even then, you had to hope that particular blow was clean. Darkspawn weren’t known to be as skilled as professional executioners when it came to lopping off heads. 

The First Warden seemed to be in a decent mood, though he was certainly much more brusque than he’d been the day before. It was understandable—this meeting was much more official in its capacity than when they’d met him for the first time. Once everyone was seated, Georg motioned toward one of the scribes, now tucked away at a small table in a corner, stacks of paper, several inkwells, and more than a few quills at the ready. “Torben here will be recording everything we go over today, since we’re trying to establish the official history of the Fifth Blight.”

“Official history?” Malcolm asked before he realized what he was saying.

“Yes,” said Marius, his wide frame filling the chair he’d chosen, black hair falling over his brow. “ _Official_ history because while the archdemon is dead, and we no longer see the archdemon in our dreams, the Warden who dealt the final blow is still alive. While Thedas does not know that Riordan should be dead, the Grey Wardens certainly know. And so we must decide what really happened because of your irresponsibility.”

“My irresponsibility? How is it mine? I refused the offer because I didn’t want to take the chance of an Old God flitting about the surface of Thedas unchecked. What else would you have had me do?”

Marius’s dark eyes held no rancor as he said, “Kill her.”

“Are you serious? You actually think I should have killed her just for offering the choice she gave me?”

“You should have killed the witch the moment she gave you that choice,” Marius said, his tone gaining heat as he continued. “It was your responsibility as a Grey Warden and you failed. Not only that, but you failed to report the deal to your superior officer as soon as that mage left your presence. If you had done those things, we wouldn’t be in the situation we’re in now, trying to determine if we have another threat of a Blight waiting for us, darkspawn constantly rushing for the surface instead of tunneling down below.”

“We can’t know that,” Malcolm said, the reply sounding inadequate even to his ears. Perhaps he should have killed Morrigan when she came to him that night. He had the abilities of a templar; he could have kept her from harming him. There had been a cliff right there and the fall down to the ocean was easily hundreds of feet. And she’d been so trusting, just as he’d been. He could have easily accomplished it. But he knew there was no way he could have done it. Maker, he _hated_ Isolde, but he couldn’t have killed her, either. And to think of actually having to kill Morrigan? He’d loved her. And he thought... he’d thought she’d loved him. Even then, after she’d told him she would leave him for refusing. The truth hadn’t come out until later. That perhaps she’d used him, either as a Warden or to get close enough to the other male Wardens to get what she wanted.

No. He refused to believe that. He knew what he’d seen in her eyes. That had been love. Either that, or love never existed in the first place, not for anyone.

“We wouldn’t have to wonder if you’d done your duty,” Marius said. 

“Oh, sod your duty,” Líadan snapped, already standing from the seat she’d just taken. “You weren’t there, Marius. You have no idea what all of us went through. That woman you say Malcolm so easily should’ve been able to kill had fought with him and his brother from the beginning. He could no more easily have killed any of his fellow Wardens than kill her. You’re saying you could do that? Easily kill one of your own? Just toss a brother or sister Warden from the cliffs over the aeries?”

“Yes,” said Marius, making no move to stand from his own seat, keeping his large hands relaxed on the arms of the chair. 

Some of the other Wardens present in the room started to voice their protests to what Marius said, while others made their agreement known. Marius pitched his voice to be heard above the others. “If it meant keeping the archdemon from gaining a second foothold on Thedas? In an instant.”

“Do you even have a heart?” Líadan asked.

At the same time, Hildur, her light eyes flashing, turned a glare on Marius. “Ancestors take you, Marius, have you turned Anders on us?”

“We Anders are pragmatic, not heartless,” Astrid said.

Malcolm, on his part, wanted to disappear into his chair. He was doing his best not to have the constant image of Morrigan flung off the edge of a cliff playing over and over in his head, but trying to concentrate on the talking, and then shouting around him didn’t do much to help. Except, after a few minutes, it did. The arguing reminded him of his time with the group he traveled with during the Blight. Reminded him of all their discussions and debates and stupid fights, exchanges with his brother always interrupted by darkspawn incursions, Leliana appalled by all their behavior, Morrigan petrifying them out of frustration, Zevran making racy comments and causing others to blush, Riordan sighing and trying to make them behave. Apparently, they’d all been acting more Warden-like than any of them had thought, even though most of the people they’d traveled with hadn’t been Wardens.

Finally, Georg requested silence. After leveling a significant look at all of the Wardens present, he said, “Now is not the time for judgement. We’ll have Malcolm start at the beginning.”

“What do you consider the beginning?” Considering the size of this audience, Malcolm didn’t particularly want to tell the tale of the Fall of Highever and the circumstances of his own conscription. Actually, he had no wish to tell an audience of any size that story, but given his choice, he’d rather it be few over many. 

“Start after Ostagar,” the First Warden said.

Malcolm took a deep breath, and then began his story. He’d barely gotten past waking up at Flemeth’s hut and being told he and Alistair were the only Grey Wardens not killed in the battle, when Marius interrupted him.

“You should have gone straight to Orlais and met with the Wardens there.”

Malcolm felt the edges of his temper fraying. “Should we? Maybe you should wait and let me finish, since the next part reveals that the Wardens were labeled traitors and kingslayers. Bounties were put on our heads. Had we tried to sail from any port, we would have been captured. And that’s exactly what happened to Riordan months later when he tried to sail from Highever to Jader once we found out where the archdemon was. And, sure, we could have tried to cut through Gherlen’s Pass, but the border there was well guarded. If that hadn’t worked, I suppose we could’ve attempted Sulcher’s Pass, and I’m not sure how much you know about the southern Frostback Mountains, but there’s a ton of Avvars up there who like to kill Fereldans and ask why they’re there later. Except, usually, you’re too dead to provide any kind of answer.” His temper gaining control of his actions, Malcolm stood up and glared down at the still-sitting Marius. “Alistair had been a Grey Warden for all of six months. I had been a Grey Warden for all of few _days_ and _maybe_ for twenty-four hours of those days was I actually conscious. I knew _nothing_. I didn’t know about the thirty year death sentence, I didn’t know about the nightmares or the Calling, I didn’t even know about the increase in appetite. We didn’t know the Warden cipher, we didn’t know what to use for messengers, we didn’t know the locations of any of the compounds outside of Ferelden. We didn’t even know how to do a Joining. It was just the two of us, by ourselves. Oh, and by the way, we’d also been declared traitors to a country we’d both grown up in. We’d been declared the killers of a king who happened to be our half-brother. We’d been made to watch all of our Warden brothers die in a waste of a battle where the general quit the field and the darkspawn slaughtered _everyone_.”

“Why were you in that tower, anyway?” Astrid asked.

The emotional memories from the time in the early Blight threatening to overwhelm him, Malcolm spun away from Marius to face the Second Warden. “Because Duncan told us to! Were you not listening to what I said? The king ordered for us to light the stupid beacon, we argued with Duncan that we should be on the battlefield with the rest of the Grey Wardens, and he told us we would do what the king said to. I believe his exact words were ‘we must do whatever it takes to destroy the darkspawn, exciting or no.’ We weren’t really in a place to argue our orders. Which we did argue, anyway, but it didn’t do us any good.”

“It saved your lives, in the end,” said Hildur. “Which I think the king intended, if your claims of being Cailan’s half-brothers are to be believed.”

Had Malcolm not been looking at the First Warden, he would’ve missed Georg’s eyes flicking quickly over to Fiona, and Fiona’s imperceptible nod, and then him turning back to Hildur before saying to the dwarf, “Their claims are true, we know that much. And I agree. I think the king, despite your objections, wanted to keep his half-brothers as far from the battle as possible. That put Duncan in a difficult position, as well. The Grey Wardens were kicked out of Ferelden for two hundred years and our Order had only been allowed back into their country twenty years ago. He couldn’t go disobeying the king and certainly not in this matter, not without risking getting the Wardens kicked out of the country yet again.” He motioned toward Malcolm. “Continue, please.”

Malcolm allowed himself to sit back down in his seat after giving Marius a wary look. He took another deep breath, willing away the crushing feeling in his chest that was the helplessness he’d felt after Ostagar, and continued telling his tale. Marius objected to their actions in saving Redcliffe, but Malcolm explained them away with his reasoning that they needed Eamon’s help. Basically, at that point, they needed anyone’s help. Someone who believed that they weren’t the ones who killed Cailan, and that the Grey Wardens weren’t the reason Ferelden’s armies lost the battle at Ostagar. When he told them about the templars at the Circle Tower having called for the Right of Annulment, Fiona’s head snapped up from where she’d been taking her own notes. And when he said that they’d gone in to help the mages, her brown eyes, ones so similar to Alistair’s, showed obvious relief. 

“That was too dangerous,” Astrid said, at first ignoring the scathing glare she immediately got from Fiona. 

“Good to know mages are so expendable to you,” Fiona said. 

Astrid sighed. “That isn’t what I meant and you know it.”

“Then perhaps I should appeal to your pragmatic side, then? That ten mages in a battle are much more powerful and useful than fifty templars?” She looked over at Malcolm. “You have templar abilities and you have fought at the side of many a mage. Would you disagree?”

Malcolm quickly glanced at Astrid to break eye contact with Fiona. It unnerved him too much. “I would not. Mages are exponentially more useful than templars. But that’s not why I saved them, not entirely. Frown at my and Alistair’s decision all you want, but there were innocent people in that tower and we were in a position to keep them from dying.”

“Risking your lives, and consequently the lives of the last two Wardens in Ferelden, to do so,” said Marius.

“There’s no point in saving humanity from the Blight if we’re no better than the darkspawn,” Malcolm said. “Many of the things we have to do as Grey Wardens are bad enough as it is. When we can do something that will help us fight the darkspawn _and_ turns out to be a morally decent thing to do, we might as well do it. At least, I will. You might not, and that’s your decision. But you weren’t there. My brother and I were.” Malcolm forced himself not to look at Fiona, even though he wanted to look to see if there would be approval in her eyes over his actions and words. Instead, he looked at the First Warden. “May I continue?”

Georg inclined his head.

Malcolm explained what they’d done at Redcliffe with Connor, leaving the bit about him and Isolde and their perpetual fight out of it. Marius glowered, and Astrid quickly followed in the glower, about Alistair’s decision to help heal Eamon. He told them about Zevran finding them and relaying the information of an assassination contract on their heads, and then them saving Riordan from Fort Drakon. Memories flooded Malcolm’s senses as he told them of the burning of Lothering, of returning to Ostagar and fighting the dead bodies of people they’d once known in life. Of finding the Joining chalice and the needed components for the Joining at the campsite, of having Riordan leave them to travel in the Deep Roads to find the archdemon. He made sure to make very clear what Riordan had ordered them to do in his absence—despite their hefty objections. While Georg simply nodded in agreement to the orders, Astrid looked almost gleeful at the idea of a Warden King of Ferelden, Marius and Hildur both seemed annoyed, while Fiona looked rather discomfited at the notion. Malcolm wondered why, but didn’t ask. Most likely, he never would ask, because that would require acknowledging the relationship between him and Fiona. And he had no intention of being the one to bring up the mother issue. He’d just treat her like any other Warden unless she brought up the matter of him and Alistair being her natural sons.

Then he told them about finding the Sacred Ashes of Andraste in the Frostback Mountains. Astrid looked at him as Brother Genitivi had looked at them when they returned from the gauntlet at the top of the mountain: almost reverently. “You truly found the Ashes of Andraste?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “I mean, they did heal Arl Eamon when nothing else would. And the trials we had to go through to get to the Urn made it all seem true enough.”

“What was it like, being in the presence of the Urn?”

Malcolm shrugged. He’d forgotten that the Anderfels held the most devout Andrastians in Thedas. “Unreal. Like everything else that happened in the past year, all of it was very unreal. Part dream and part nightmare, and the entire time, I wondered when I would wake up in my home in Highever.”

The First Warden raised an eyebrow. “Even now?”

Malcolm’s eyes drifted across the room, lighting from person to person, catching on Fiona for a moment longer than he wanted, before returning to Georg. “Especially now.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_“_ At some time, each of us has thought, ‘What does it matter if I keep hold of my integrity? I am but one mortal. I am powerless.’ How blind we all are! The virtue of a single slave destroyed the Tevinter Imperium. The dishonor of one man drove the Maker from our sight. I tell you truly, nothing but the integrity of our hearts will win the love of the Maker back to us. It is all the power we shall ever possess to change this world for good or ill.”

—Divine Renata I, _Sermon on Integrity_

**Malcolm**

“After the Ashes,” Malcolm said, continuing to the story in order to break the awkward silence, “we offered our companions the choice to become Grey Wardens. Zevran was the only one who said yes.” Then Malcolm paused and braced himself for the tirade he was sure would come from one or more of the Weisshaupt Wardens present. After all, they’d pretty much objected to everything else he and Alistair had done so far, so objecting to not making more Wardens would fall within their objecting purview.

He wasn’t disappointed.

“Any of your companions who refused the Joining should have been conscripted,” Marius said, ever the first to voice his arguments. 

Astrid nodded so sharply that Malcolm thought she could’ve nodded her head right off her neck, not that he would’ve minded had that happened. “I agree. Not conscripting this Leliana or Morrigan was dangerous, and even now, puts the Order at too much risk. Both of them know Grey Warden secrets. How could they not after traveling with you and Alistair for so long? Incredibly irresponsible and shortsighted of you both not to conscript them. Now we’ll have to search for both of them and who knows how hard it will be to find an Orlesian bard in addition to an apostate without a phylactery.” 

Malcolm stared at a tapestry on the far wall behind the First Warden’s head. It depicted a battle from a Blight long ago, one where the Wardens had still possessed their blessedly useful griffons. He willed himself to betray nothing of what he truly felt as he said, “Leliana is dead.” It didn’t stop his voice from catching just a little at the realization, at the image that came to him, unbidden, of Leliana’s final moments before her death. The agony in her eyes and in Alistair’s as they said goodbye to each other. Then other, more pleasant memories came to him. Memories of her lilting laugh, her beautiful voice, the wonder of her many stories, her brilliant smile, and how she’d made his brother so astonishingly happy. 

“Are you certain?” Marius asked. 

“You could just be covering for your friend so we don’t search for her,” said Astrid.

Malcolm bit his lip and forced his muscles to relax. “I’m not covering up anything. Alistair killed her himself.”

Astrid nodded again. “Good. At least one of you was reasonable. That makes one less worry. Now we just—”

Malcolm’s anger propelled him to his feet. “Good? What is _wrong_ with you? I say that a woman, a good woman who voluntarily fought with us for the better part of a year in order to battle the Blight, died at the hands of a friend, and you think that is a good thing? In case you’re assuming Alistair killed her because he thought she was a danger for telling Warden secrets, you’re wrong. She was bitten by a genlock during a battle and contracted the taint. He killed her because she requested he be the one to do it. Right before she died, she told us she didn’t regret not becoming a Grey Warden, even though it would have saved her from the death she had. It wasn’t _good_ , it had nothing to do with _reason_ , and had everything to do with the Maker-cursed _darkspawn_. And even if she had lived, she never would have betrayed any of the Grey Warden secrets she might have known. People other than Grey Wardens are capable of keeping secrets, even if they’re Warden secrets.”

The Second Warden blinked at him for a moment, taken aback by his sudden outburst. “Be that as it may—”

“Astrid,” Fiona said from her seat, “there are precedents for non-Wardens both knowing and keeping Grey Warden secrets. Leliana would have been far from the first. For you to expect Alistair or Malcolm to either conscript or kill someone who had helped them from the beginning is more than a bit much.”

The First Warden nodded his agreement with the mage. “You say what you do with the knowledge that you have over five hundred Wardens near enough for you to sense, Astrid. You’ve never had to try to combat an entire Blight with less Wardens than fingers on one hand. It would do you well to have a bit of compassion. Remember, in the end, Malcolm, Alistair, the other Fereldan Wardens, and their companions did end the Blight as far as we know.” Georg turned his calm gaze to Malcolm. “Please, sit back down. Let’s hope our brother and sister Wardens keep their judgements a bit more compassionate and civil.”

For a moment, it seemed as if the Second Warden would keep speaking despite what the First had told her, but then she closed her mouth.

Malcolm sat back down, closed his eyes briefly, and then continued. He told them about healing Eamon, and then killing Flemeth before she could take over Morrigan’s body. That brought a new round of arguments and objections from the usual suspects. Then came a surprised comment from Líadan: “You really did fight a dragon before the archdemon?”

He looked back at his friend. “What, you thought we were making it up?”

“To be honest, yes. I thought you were having me on.”

Malcolm grinned at her, feeling some of the tension draining away. “We would never do such a thing.”

“And get away with it.”

At the glint in her eye, some tension returned, and he wondered just what sort of teasing and tricks he’d have to endure after this meeting. He sighed, and then returned to his storytelling. “After Flemeth, we went in search of the Dalish. We, quite literally, stumbled over Líadan, who was desperately ill with the taint outside a cave that pretty much spewed taint.”

“Why didn’t you kill her straight away?” Astrid asked. “She was tainted.”

Malcolm held up a hand to stave off Líadan’s certain, loud objections for just a moment. “Because by the amount of taint she had, she should have turned already. And she hadn’t. She also felt different. We thought there might be some hope for her, so we brought her back to our healer, Wynne, a mage who _happened_ to be one of those people who weren’t Grey Wardens but knew all sorts of Grey Warden secrets. And don’t think I didn’t notice that you didn’t put her in your little ‘list of people who should either be conscripted or killed because they know Warden secrets,’ either.”

“He’s got you there,” Hildur said.

“Don’t you worry, though,” Líadan said, “once I woke up and refused to join the Grey Wardens when they asked, they conscripted me without a second thought.”

“There were second thoughts,” said Malcolm. “And third and fourth and fifth thoughts. There were also a couple arguments and possibly a fistfight, but you were unconscious at the time, so you wouldn’t remember. It was all before you woke up, anyway, while we were looking for that Tevinter artifact you and Tamlen found.” Malcolm glanced over at the First Warden. “The location of that mirror is marked on a map in that stack of missives we brought from Riordan, in case you’re wondering. Someone should go collect the remains and bring them here for study.”

When he turned back around to look at Líadan, she was giving him an almost sad look. “You had second thoughts about conscripting me? You didn’t want me to be a Grey Warden?”

He sighed. “ _I_ was conscripted, remember? I wasn’t really that big about conscripting someone else, even if it was Alistair technically doing the conscripting. And what’s the big deal? You didn’t even want to become a Warden in the first place. Or the second place, for that matter. You ran away that first night and I was the one who had to catch you and you were mad at me for weeks.”

Marius raised an eyebrow at Líadan. “You ran away?”

Líadan hurriedly pointed at Malcolm. “He ran away, too! After he was conscripted, he ran away from his Warden Commander, what was his name... Duncan, that was it. And Duncan had to run after him!”

Georg asked, “ _Duncan_ ran after you, did he, Malcolm?”

Malcolm felt his cheeks burning at the blush as he turned to face the First Warden. “Yes. Not my finest moment, I admit. He was also a lot faster than he looked, let me tell you.” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Duncan spent most of his time with me either glaring at me or sighing in despair over my behavior.”

At that, both Hildur and Fiona snorted with laughter, while Georg’s lips twitched into a broad smile.

“Oh, to have seen any of that,” Hildur said though her giggles, something Malcolm hadn’t thought possible with any of the Wardens posted at Weisshaupt.

“Served him right, I say,” said Fiona. 

Marius looked slightly annoyed, while Astrid seemed more than perturbed at her fellow Senior Wardens showing any emotion other than staunch determination. Georg, on the other hand, seemed to be fighting laughter of his own. After looking at each of the amused Wardens, Malcolm looked back to the First Warden. “I’m missing something, aren’t I?”

“Both Fiona and Hildur were friends of Duncan’s and worked with him on more than one mission. I, on the other hand, was one of the trackers who had to bring Duncan back to the Wardens after more than one of his escape attempts,” Georg said. 

“So you’re one of the people Duncan meant when he said there was always a Warden who was faster,” said Malcolm. 

“Told you about that after he caught you, did he?”

“That? No, he told me that after I got kicked out of a noble’s castle.” At the First Warden’s alarmed look, Malcolm straightened in his chair. “Through no fault of my own!”

“Let me guess,” Líadan said from her seat near the fireplace, “Isolde kicked you out of Redcliffe Castle, didn’t she?”

Malcolm didn’t bother asking her how she knew. After all, knowing him and knowing Isolde and Eamon and other Fereldan nobles, it was fairly easy to figure that one out. “Yes, it was Isolde. She mistook me for Alistair when we passed through Redcliffe on our way to Ostagar from Highever. She confronted me, I denied it, she called me a liar and kicked me out until I was ready to tell the truth. Duncan found out some time later and came after me, fully expecting me to have run off. He was surprised I hadn’t, and that’s when he told me about his own attempts at running.”

“The Order was far better off once he came around,” said the First Warden. “Duncan was a good man, though I’m not sure he was ever truly convinced of that fact.”

“Most good people usually aren’t,” said Líadan, throwing a look Malcolm’s way that he didn’t understand. 

“Anyway,” Malcolm said, not wanting to dwell on whatever his elven friend had meant, “after we conscripted the very unwilling Líadan, we secured the Dalish promises to help raise their army for battling the darkspawn and they started moving toward the Redcliffe area.” He went on to explain how they’d traveled to Orzammar and met up with Riordan again before traveling down into the Deep Roads to find the archdemon’s location. Líadan volunteered the story about getting mad at Malcolm and hitting him with lightning, which brought an amused snicker from Hildur. Then Malcolm told them about the broodmother, finding the archdemon and the massed darkspawn army, leaving Orzammar, and Riordan leaving for Jader. Then he somberly told them about the Battle of Honnleath and how Leliana had died, his glare at Astrid daring her to say anything bad about the bard or any of their actions. Astrid didn’t say a word. Then he explained the Fereldan Landsmeet process, how they’d saved Riordan once again in Denerim, with Hildur gleefully laughing at Riordan’s plight as Georg slowly explained, through Hildur’s chuckles, that Hildur and Riordan had worked together for many years in Jader. 

“Riordan has found himself in jails more than those two times you saved him,” Hildur said. “Before you leave to go back to Ferelden, I’ll have to tell you about some of those other times.”

Líadan clapped her hands and smiled in anticipation. Both of them were really warming to Hildur. Marius and Astrid, not so much. And they’d liked Fiona and Georg already. Well, Líadan liked Fiona. Malcolm was more wary of her than anything, unwilling to commit to a feeling because he couldn’t risk it.

Malcolm went on to explain that the Landsmeet deposed Loghain as regent and crowned Alistair as King of Ferelden, and then Líadan happily pointed out that Malcolm had also been formally made a Prince of Ferelden, and he wondered if she were following instructions from his brother, either one of them, in order to embarrass him as much as possible. He wouldn’t put it past any of them, that much was certain. At Malcolm’s acknowledgement of his place in Ferelden’s royalty, as well as Alistair’s, he noticed a satisfied gleam in Astrid’s eyes. Apparently, Riordan was right in his assertion that some of the Anders Wardens at Weisshaupt preferred the Wardens to be running countries. He filed the realization away to talk to the Warden Commander about when they got back to Ferelden.

Through Marius’s questioning, he had to explain how their intelligence in regards to the darkspawn horde had been faulty, and they’d been fooled into returning to Redcliffe for another battle there, while the bulk of the horde headed for the Fereldan capital. “So after the Battle of Redcliffe,” Malcolm said, “we swung right back around and went straight for Denerim. We’d managed to put together a good sized army, nearly eighty thousand troops strong. Significant, given we’d started out with a grand total of two people.”

Marius nodded his head and made a noise indicating that he was actually impressed by their efforts. That made Malcolm dislike the man a bit less. At least the Tevinter man seemed to have a bit more heart than the frosty cold Astrid. The woman made Anora look sweet and endearing, which he hadn’t thought possible. Malcolm continued, “We camped north of the city, where we could see everything that was going on. We knew the horde would reach the city and lay siege to it before we could get there in force, but we had to rest the troops after the forced march. They were already being sacrificed as distractions so we could get to the archdemon. After we had a strategy council the night before was when Morrigan approached me with her... deal.”

“And why would she approach you first of anyone else, Malcolm?” Astrid asked.

He forced his hands not to fidget. “Because she knew I loved her.”

“You _were_ involved with that witch, then?”

“Yes.” He would not snap at the Second Warden again. He would act his age, for once in his life.

“And you lost perspective because of it. See where it got you? You should have known better.”

Maybe acting his age could be saved for another time. He swiveled to glare at Astrid. “Lost perspective? What? I _refused_ her deal despite what I felt for her. You’d know that if you’d let me finish the damn story.” He kept going, lest his lose momentum and completely shut down, as he tended to do when it came to discussing anything to do with Morrigan. “She had some kind of ritual that she’d gotten from her mother, Flemeth. Turned out that Morrigan knew more about Grey Wardens than Alistair and I did. We didn’t even know about the final blow killing both the archdemon and the Grey Warden until Riordan told us in Redcliffe the night before we started the forced march to Denerim. Anyway, her ritual apparently required laying with her to produce a child with the taint. The archdemon’s freed soul would seek out the tainted, newly-formed child, and possess it. Then it would be reborn, free of the taint, or so Morrigan claimed.” He shrugged. “It seemed like a bad idea to me, because even if the Old God was untainted and therefore wouldn’t be an archdemon and start a Blight, it’d still be an Old God. And they call out to the darkspawn, right? So having an Old God loose on the surface of Thedas seemed like a particularly bad idea. It’s problematic enough that the darkspawn tunnel to find the Old Gods trapped in their prisons. And if they had an Old God out on the surface that they could just _chase_? Yeah. So I said no, even though it meant one or more of us would have to die the next day.”

“I must admit, given what you’ve said of Morrigan and your feelings about her, I am surprised you refused her,” Marius said, not unkindly.

“So was I,” replied Malcolm, facing the Senior Warden, and then looking away, towards the tapestry behind the First Warden. “And so was she.” The anger and anguish that had stormed through her amber eyes at his refusal flashed in front of him, and her angry shouts flooded his ears yet again. Her pleas and the regret and sorrow, in his voice and hers, backed by the crashing of the sea’s waves against the cliffs far below. The last light touch of her fingertips on his cheeks, and then the slight movement of salt-tinged air as she left his life forever. Even in this cold office of the First Warden’s at Weisshaupt, he could almost feel her warm touch along the thin scar on his cheek. He barely kept himself from reaching for it. Even now, though he knew he should have thrown it away weeks ago, the ring she’d given him remained looped through the leather thong around his neck, nestled against the amulet he’d gotten after his Joining. It was the only tangible thing he had left of her. Though, given how everything had ended, he was fairly certain he shouldn’t bother keeping it. And yet, he couldn’t force himself to get rid of it. Not yet. His heart clung tenaciously to hope, even as his rational mind sought to release it. 

“Was it blood magic, this ritual?” Fiona asked.

Malcolm shrugged. “I don’t know. She said it was old magic, from before the Circle of Magi even existed. I didn’t really ask more about the ritual. I was too busy convincing myself to say no.”

“And though you claim to have refused this witch’s offer, when Riordan dealt the archdemon what looked like the final blow, he lived,” said Astrid.

“I _did_ refuse,” Malcolm said as levelly as he could manage.

“Evidence says otherwise.”

“He refused,” said Líadan. “If you had seen him afterwards, either that night or the next day, you would know he wasn’t lying. So leave him alone with that. He’s suffered enough.”

Malcolm would’ve given her a grateful look, but he was too busy keeping himself either from losing his temper entirely or bursting into highly embarrassing tears. 

“How about you tell me about the battle with the archdemon, Líadan,” said Georg, noticing Malcolm’s plight and giving him time to compose himself without bringing more attention to it.

“Let me start by saying that Zevran Arainai is an ass,” she said, folding her arms across her chest and scowling. “An ass that saved us by grounding the archdemon, but an ass nonetheless for doing so.” She huffed before continuing, explaining how the troops they’d gathered remained mostly outside the city, keeping the bulk of the darkspawn army too occupied to continue into the city proper. Then she told them of how the Wardens got through the city, using companies of soldiers to keep other darkspawn busy enough to leave the Wardens mostly alone as they hunted the archdemon. How they’d finally gotten the archdemon’s attention at the top of Fort Drakon, where they and some unfortunate, yet determined, non-Warden troops battled the high dragon. “It was obvious the dragon was just going to keep flying away and out of our reach whenever it wanted,” she said, and then she sighed. “At one point in the battle, it got distracted by Alistair, who had apparently _really_ pissed it off—”

“He probably told it that its mother was a Chantry priest,” Malcolm said, a smile appearing on his face. “That was his favorite insult to darkspawn when he was trying to get their attention. It works, too. Really offensive to them, I’ve noticed. I think the instance you’re talking about, the archdemon had smacked me aside and was trying to get Alistair, and Alistair thought he had to keep the archdemon’s attention in order to keep it from eating me or something. As if Flemeth hadn’t already tried to make him a high dragon snack months before.”

Líadan raised her eyebrows at him. “May I continue?”

“Sorry. Please do.” He did his best to look contrite. It had just been nice to latch on to a memory that _wasn’t_ Morrigan-related. At least not directly. Maker, that said something right there, that he’d rather think about a nasty battle with an archdemon than think about Morrigan.

She nodded at him, and then continued, “Anyway, its tail landed between me and Zevran, and... well, we had all discussed earlier, as we ran through the city, on how we’d ground the archdemon. I saw the chance to reach its wing, so I started to run towards the tail to run up it and clip its wing, so to speak. But Zevran reached the tail before I did and knocked me down to keep me from doing it. And then that bastard did it himself. The archdemon took to the air and kept trying to fling him off, but he wouldn’t budge. Using his sword and dagger, he worked his way over to its wing, and then he slit it straight down the middle. Problem was, when he ran out of wing, the archdemon had been hundreds of feet over nothing but air. The dragon managed to land back on the roof of Fort Drakon, but Zevran didn’t.”

“He smiled as he fell,” Malcolm said. “I saw him. Like he wanted to go out that way.”

“He died as a warrior and Grey Warden,” said Marius.

“He died like an _idiot_ ,” said Líadan.

Malcolm looked over at his friend. “You’re mad at him because he stopped you from doing the same damn thing. You can’t fool me. I was there.”

“And yet, he grounded the archdemon, as was necessary,” said Georg, steering the conversation away from yet another argument between Malcolm and Líadan. “What happened after that, Malcolm?” The First Warden had apparently noted that Líadan was a bit too busy glaring at Malcolm to continue an unbiased story at that point.

“The archdemon fell to the roof, like Líadan said. It broke its legs when it landed—you could see the bones through the scales. Pretty nasty. Even then, you could see it was dying. Dalish warriors, as well as human and dwarven soldiers, started pouring onto the roof at that point, too, everyone closing in on the dragon. The Wardens were still closest, but we were falling one by one. Alistair’s shield arm had been mangled pretty badly at the shoulder, and he’d had to ditch his shield. Riordan got thrown against a wall by the dragon’s tail. Oghren managed to slit the underbelly and then got a tail-spike in his own belly for his efforts—”

“A damn shriek got me from behind right after I burned the dragon’s eye out with lightning,” Líadan added.

“And the archdemon was getting weaker and weaker,” Malcolm said. “I couldn’t see Riordan anywhere, so I thought I would have to make the final blow before any of the non-Warden soldiers did it by accident and loosed the archdemon’s soul into another darkspawn to start the Blight all over again.”

“Wise decision,” said Marius. 

“Well, Riordan saw me getting ready to do it, even though I couldn’t see him, and stole my sword and did it himself. What happened next was... I’ve never seen anything like it. This huge shaft of light spiked from the archdemon’s head and far into the dark sky above. Riordan was transfixed. It looked like he was struggling to let go of the sword and couldn’t. And the whole time, during the entire fight, we could hear the song from the archdemon. And while that light was there, it was louder than ever, keening and painful. Then there was one last, desperate note before the pillar of light broke apart and threw everyone to the ground.”

“And then we couldn’t hear the song anymore,” Líadan said softly. “It was quiet. In our heads, at least. Outside, there was an awful lot of moaning about in pain.”

“After we got up, Alistair and I went up to the archdemon’s body, and what we thought would be Riordan’s body. When Riordan opened his eyes, I’m not sure which one of us was more surprised.” Malcolm shook his head at the memory. “We had no idea what’d happened. At first, anyway. Then I got a sneaking suspicion that Morrigan hadn’t just asked me. I asked Alistair first, and the look of horror on his face told me I needn’t even have bothered asking. Riordan hadn’t even known about it, and while I doubted Morrigan would’ve approached Oghren unless it was a last choice, I asked him anyway. He said no. All that left was Zevran, and out of any of us, I think he would have done it to keep the rest of us from dying. That stupid, idiotic, kind, well-meaning Antivan friend of mine did the ritual. I’m certain of it.”

Georg let out a sigh and sat back in his chair. “And now we’ve got an Old God somewhere, just waiting to be reborn in six or seven months.”

“You should have killed her while you had the chance,” Astrid told Malcolm. 

“Tell me something,” Malcolm said, “do you kill every non-Warden you know? I’m just wondering, because you seem to be advocating that sort of thing to me.”

Astrid didn’t answer, so Malcolm went on. “Listening to you go on about killing all these non-Wardens at pretty much the drop of any hat, it doesn’t surprise me that the Grey Wardens were kicked out of Ferelden for two hundred years. Isn’t it bad enough that we have to burn villages that’ve been sacked by darkspawn and kill people who _look_ to others like they might survive when we know they won’t because they’re tainted? You think I should have killed people for choosing to fight with us but not become Wardens because they might’ve learned secrets, even when we had practically no allies to begin with?” He stood up and pointed at Líadan. “You think we should’ve just given up hope for someone who’s tainted but hasn’t turned, even though by all of our learning and reckoning, she should’ve turned long before we found her? Well, guess what, sometimes Grey Wardens are allowed to have things like _hearts_ and _souls_ and choose to save people who can be saved. Líadan turned out to be a pretty awesome person and a really good Warden, and had it been left to you, she’d be dead right now. And you seem to think that I should’ve been able to tell what Morrigan was truly up to and should have killed her on that assumption of yours. But, you know what? We were already up to our necks in death and we really didn’t go looking for more _people_ to kill when the darkspawn were killing enough themselves. And guess what? I can’t read minds. Maybe you can, but I can’t, and I’m not going to kill someone on the vague chance that they might do something really stupid that could endanger the Grey Wardens and humanity. Why? Because everyone in existence stands the chance of doing that, Grey Warden, witch, or whatever they might be.”

The Second Warden got to her feet, eyes colder than even Loghain’s had been the moment the Landsmeet had voted against him. “I think being a prince has gone to your head, young man, to assume you can speak to me like that. And you—”

“You think what? Being a prince has what? Really?” He burst out laughing at the very idea, and very quickly, Líadan was laughing as loudly as he was, because she knew him. He did his best to gain control of his laughter so he could finish telling Astrid off, but the situation was too ridiculous for him take seriously now. So he had to settle for talking between laughs. “I would’ve told you the same thing whether or not I was a prince or a commoner or a noble. Ask Líadan, she knows. Or anyone back in Ferelden who knew me before all of this happened. I’ve been mouthing off ever since I could talk, much to everyone’s despair.”

“You should’ve heard him at the Landsmeet,” said Líadan. “It was priceless, let me tell you. I thought Arl Eamon was going to wring his neck.”

“Your behavior is entirely unacceptable, Warden,” Astrid said. 

“Mine? Entirely unacceptable? Really? My behavior helped end a Blight, so I think it’s at least partially acceptable,” replied Malcolm, heedless of the coldly furious threat emanating from Astrid’s eyes. “You’re the one who’s advocating killing all these non-Wardens. Maybe you should shove—”

“Wardens!” Georg said, the command to be quiet ringing clear in his firm tone. “Enough. I would like for everyone except Malcolm to leave the room. We will reconvene tomorrow to discuss what our plans are in regards to the Morrigan situation will be. There will be the memorial for Zevran Arainai and the Fifth Blight this afternoon, and don’t forget, we have the formal dinner tonight with King Hagan and his contingent. Now, leave us, please.” He motioned to the door to emphasize, and then gave Malcolm a significant look before pointing to the chair behind the younger man.

Malcolm sat down warily, finally starting to worry about what he’d said to the Second Warden and how he’d said it. Líadan briefly touched his shoulder in solidarity on her way out. He’d pretty much forgotten that the Grey Wardens were a military organization, and that could carry a fairly stiff punishment for insubordination, no matter how Duncan, Riordan, or even Alistair had treated him. This wasn’t Ferelden. This was Weisshaupt. 

And by the looks of it, he was in trouble.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

“In Darkness eternal they searched

For those who had goaded them on,

Until at last they found their prize,

Their god, their betrayer:

The sleeping dragon Dumat. Their taint

Twisted even the false-god, and the whisperer

Awoke at last, in pain and horror, and led

Them to wreak havoc upon all the nations of the world: 

The first Blight.”

— _Canticle of Threnodies 8:7_

**Malcolm**

“Not all Grey Wardens at Weisshaupt are heartless,” the First Warden said to Malcolm as soon as the last person filed out, closing the door quietly behind them.

Malcolm blinked at the older man’s tone and not so much the words. He’d been expecting being yelled at or at least scolded. Instead, he was being... confused. “I didn’t say they were.”

A ghost of amusement flitted behind Georg’s eyes. “You didn’t say as much, but you were thinking it.”

He glanced over towards where Astrid had been sitting for the entire meeting beforehand. “She expected me to pretty much kill every non-Warden I’d come across who might have heard some sort of Grey Warden secret. And I didn’t hear anyone really objecting, except for me and Líadan, so that doesn’t really give you Weisshaupt people a lot of points in the heart department. I’m just saying. And what was that about her thinking I was talking back because I happen to be a prince? I don’t know how much information you got from Duncan or Riordan, but I’m sure they must’ve mentioned something about how I tend to just say whatever pops into my head, appropriate situation or not. I mean, I’ve gotten better in the past year, but if I’m stressed or out of my element, or, well,” he motioned with his hands to indicate what’d just happened, “angry, I tend to fall into old habits.”

The First Warden sighed. “Astrid is from the Anderfels, as you well know. And the Anders have a weak king.”

Malcolm squinted in thought, and then said, “I’m not following.”

“As a result, the Grey Wardens are the de facto rulers of the Anderfels, and have been for many years.”

He tilted his head to the side to see if he could understand it that way. Nope. “Still not following.”

Georg smiled ruefully. “While I believe the Wardens rule the Anderfels out of necessity, I’d rather it not be that way. Alas, we cannot allow the country where our headquarters are to fall into chaos. However, while I feel it’s a necessity that cannot be avoided, the First Warden before me, and my current Second Warden, prefer that the Grey Wardens rule over the Anderfels. Between you and me, she and many of the other Anders Wardens highly approve of the current King of Ferelden being a Grey Warden, and the same goes for his brother being a prince. So she assumes that because she holds being a prince in high esteem, that you must feel the same, and must be getting full of yourself because of it.”

“Well, it isn’t true. If she really thinks that she can go stuff...” He didn’t finish the rest of that thought out of respect for the man sitting in front of him. “Anyway, if they’re going to try to control the throne of Ferelden, they’re going to have to get into line behind Arl Eamon,” Malcolm said, trying to sound lighthearted, but honestly starting to get more than a bit nervous. They’d already mostly dealt with Eamon, especially with Alistair having come a long way from the young man with no self-confidence who’d survived Ostagar. But to have Weisshaupt attempting to control Ferelden through them? If it came to it, Alistair would abdicate rather than allow outside influences to control their nation. It didn’t matter if it was Orlais or Weisshaupt or anyone, outside was outside. 

“Oh, I don’t think they will. They’re just enamored with the idea of it is all. Fret not. As for myself, I’ve no inclinations to try and control anything beyond what I already do.” He grinned. “I didn’t even want to become First Warden. Apparently, because I didn’t want to be, that made me a good candidate.”

Malcolm shared in the grin. “That sounds familiar. My brother didn’t want to be king and I don’t want to be prince. The only reason we pushed for the throne was to get Loghain off it so we could turn the army’s attention to the Blight and allow the Grey Wardens from Orlais and everywhere else into Ferelden to fight the darkspawn. Honestly, if he could, Alistair would step down from the throne in an instant, and I certainly wouldn’t step onto it afterward. We’d rather be Wardens.”

“Would you?” Georg asked. “Be honest. You’re a conscript. Would you rather be a Warden or go back to your old life?”

The pain of loss lanced across his chest at the question, shortening his breath. His eyes drifted toward the flames in the fireplace, the crackling of the dry wood burning down into embers reminding him of his fight through his family’s castle in Highever. The castle had been rebuilt and refurnished, the staff restored as much as possible, and Fergus had returned and lived there once again, but there was no bringing the rest of the Couslands back. The restless young man who’d wanted nothing but to join his older brother in the south to fight darkspawn at the king’s behest was long since gone. Just as his nephew, sister-in-law, and parents could never come back, neither could he go back to who he once was. As much as Fergus was still his brother, and how much Bryce and Eleanor had raised him, he was no longer a Cousland. Though he’d never known his natural father, he was part of _his_ legacy now and not the Couslands, a Theirin as much as Alistair was. As much as Maric and Cailan, Moira the Rebel Queen and Brandel the Defeated had been. “I can’t go back,” he said quietly. 

“What happened?”

Malcolm didn’t bother looking away from the flames. “What happened when?” 

“You were conscripted. Duncan never mentioned exactly how. All we got was that you were conscripted and you’d lived through the Joining and were a Grey Warden.”

Malcolm smiled crookedly, if only to keep the penetrating sadness away. “We were betrayed. My family, the people who raised me, were, anyway.” Then he told the First Warden about the Fall of Highever and how Duncan had conscripted him, both to save him, and to give Bryce hope that Malcolm would live. “It took me a while to stop being mad at Duncan,” he finished, “and even longer for me to forgive myself for refusing to volunteer.” He shrugged. “But I’m okay with it now. Howe was executed for his crimes. Fergus was granted the teyrnir back. Oh, and we stopped the Blight. But that doesn’t stop the family that raised me from being dead aside from my brother Fergus. And that doesn’t stop the knowledge of who my natural father was and having to acknowledge what birthright that gives me and my brother Alistair. It doesn’t matter what I want—I can’t go back to my old life. It’s gone. My father, my mother, all of them, gone.”

“Not entirely. You realize that Fiona is your natural mother?”

“Yes.” Malcolm played along with the question and answer, wondering at the First Warden’s angle, but willing to go with it for the time being. He’d yet to be scolded, and that in of itself was a good sign. “If I hadn’t, I probably would’ve fallen over just now at the revelation.” 

“How did you know?”

“We found letters in Duncan’s study in the Denerim compound. And then we found the cipher in another safe and I was the one who found the letters from Fiona to Duncan and Duncan to Fiona. All in all, we did lots of finding. Luckily, I managed to keep them away from Alistair. He didn’t find out until just before the Landsmeet. Had he found out sooner, I don’t think he would’ve been able to keep the secret. Wynne knew because she’d been friends with Maric and Duncan, and had known Fiona a little, I guess from whatever trip they had in the Deep Roads that made them stop at Kinloch Hold before and after said trip.” Considering someone had just confirmed with certainty that Fiona was indeed his mother, he sounded remarkably calm. In fact, he _felt_ remarkably calm. He wondered if something was wrong with him.

“You haven’t mentioned it to her.” Statement, not a question.

“She hasn’t mentioned it to me.”

Georg laughed. “You are more alike than either of you would like to admit at this time, I suspect. But enough of that. She, or you, will come around whenever you feel that it’s safe. I certainly won’t broach the subject between the two of you. As for the governance of Ferelden, while I’m sure the Anders Wardens would like the monarchy to remain under Warden control, I believe that control will be limited to your generation. Alistair’s reign, or should that come to a shorter end than even his Calling, your reign if he has no heirs other than you. While I recognize that neither you nor Alistair prefer to rule Ferelden, it’s something that had to be done, and something that now must continue for stability. I’ve of a mind to order you to remain an active Warden, however, at least for the next couple of years.”

“You mean through the Thaw?” Malcolm asked, glad that they’d moved on from his own rocky familial past and present.

“Yes. Now, were I to send you back as an active Warden, depending on how your brother does as monarch, it would be understandable should you need to split your time between court and Warden duties.”

“That split shouldn’t be that difficult, given that the Grey Wardens have their compound in Denerim and it’s even attached to the palace.” Malcolm frowned, the memory of their break-in coming to mind, of Leliana’s frustration with him and Alistair, and the fun they had despite the recklessness of it all. It had been much too easy to break into the compound. Then again, the compound had once been filled with at least thirty Wardens at a time instead of the ghosts of memories as the only guards. They’d barely paid mind to the fact that they’d broken into the palace complex, where there were royal guards, men loyal to Loghain and Howe, all eager to capture, torture, and kill them. Instead, they’d teased each other and laughed at each other’s exasperation. 

“The Grey Wardens have more holdings in Ferelden than just the compound in Denerim,” said Georg. 

Malcolm looked up. “What? What do you mean?”

The First Warden laughed openly, reached into his desk, and pulled out a small, old journal. Then he handed it over to a dubious Malcolm. “Two hundred years ago, the Grey Wardens were headquartered at Soldier’s Peak. Just before the Blight, a man claiming to be the descendent of one of those Wardens gave this journal to Duncan, who sent it here to me to be analyzed for its validity. With the threat of the Blight coming, he and none of his Wardens had much time to dedicate to investigation. Here at Weisshaupt, we have a bit more time.”

The name ‘Soldier’s Peak’ sounded familiar to Malcolm and he repeated it over and over in his head, trying to place it. Then he remembered, a story slotted between school lessons and tales told to scare him as a small child, the half-forgotten fortress in the mountains overlooking the Waking Sea. “Soldier’s Peak,” he said suddenly. “That place is abandoned and...” he trailed off, not wanting to say what else came to mind.

Georg caught on. “And what?”

Malcolm sighed in resignation. “Haunted. And not really much of a holding. It’s been abandoned for two hundred years if that’s what the other Ferelden Warden holding is. It would take a lot of men and a lot of work to recover it even if it weren’t haunted. I imagine it would need a lot of masonry work, cleanup inside, and if any of the stories are true, the Veil is probably thin or sundered, which means a lot of mage work. I’ve been to places where the Veil is torn. They aren’t pretty.” He turned the leather-bound journal over in his hands, flipping open the first page to see the owner: Sophia Dryden, whoever that was. Though, the name did sound somewhat familiar. “And Soldier’s Peak is really far up on the northern coast. It’s between Amaranthine and Highever and in up the coastal mountains. It doesn’t even have a port like any of the towns on the coast. Were any problems to come up in the south, it would take an extra few days to get down there and investigate. Not that being separate from the palace wouldn’t be a good thing, should anything like Ostagar ever happen again, but that’s hundreds of years into the future, I would think. While Alistair and I have had our disagreements, I don’t really foresee a falling out over strategy and possible kingslaying. And if we have a falling out, it’s more likely to involve fists instead of armies. And probably a lot of shouting.”

“Yes, Soldier’s Peak does seem an unwise choice at this time,” agreed the First Warden. “More a crumbling monument to past Warden glory than anything else.” He rustled through more papers on his desk for a few moments before coming up with the one he wanted. “Ah. Here we go. One of the messages sent from Riordan notified me that the Crown granted the Grey Wardens the Arling of Amaranthine.”

Malcolm sat up straight in his chair. “They what? No, they didn’t. Amaranthine was granted to the Teyrnir of Highever as recompense for what Rendon Howe, the former Arl of Amaranthine, did.”

Georg frowned, reached across his desk and snagged a pair of spectacles, put them on and studied the missive more closely. “Oh, it seems your brother Fergus turned around and granted the arling to the Wardens right after the Crown gave them to him.”

“That idiot.”

The First Warden raised an eyebrow at Malcolm.

“I mean, his heart was in the right place and I know he didn’t really seek to expand the teyrnir’s holdings since it’s pretty large in the first place, so I understand how me might not want to keep the arling. But... giving the Wardens the arling in effect makes the Warden Commander the Arl of Amaranthine. Putting aside how much _work_ it is being the arl in and of itself, the people of the arling will have a really, really hard time accepting anyone but a Fereldan as the arl. Howe, for all his faults, was Fereldan, like it or not. I’m sure you’ve enough knowledge of Fereldan history to know how well having Orlesian lords take over Fereldan holdings went? Yeah, not so well.” Malcolm sighed. “The nobility in Ferelden comes from the bottom up. Freeholders sworn to banns, banns sworn to teyrns. Arlings are a bit more confusing, because sometimes banns swear to the arl, who then swear to the teyrn, or the arlings are made directly by the teyrns as strategic fortress holdings.” His brow furrowed as he tried to recall which Amaranthine was, and then he remembered. “And Amaranthine is one with banns sworn to it. It used to just be a bannorn, until the Howes became one of the first families to fall in with King Calenhad, so he made them arls.”

“Ferelden is very different,” Georg said, once it appeared Malcolm’s quick history lesson was over.

“That was a very diplomatic reply,” said Malcolm, a wry smile falling into place. “Ferelden is strange, odd, and at times, barbaric. We’re not very far from reverting back into a bunch of warring teyrnirs. The civil war during the Blight should be evidence of that. But, my country is my country, and provided we’ve a strong enough leader, we can unite to overcome a common foe. Then it’s back to business as usual, fighting with each other until another outside threat makes itself known. As for granting Amaranthine to the Grey Wardens, I still think it’s unwise. As it is, the banns won’t stand for Riordan being the arl. Not that he wouldn’t be a good one and not think he wouldn’t be fantastically grumpy about having to be the arl by default at being the Warden Commander, but for all the man being born and raised in Highever, he has an Orlesian accent. The people will only hear his accent and not his intelligence and fair-mindedness. Unfortunate, yes, but entirely true.”

“That’s why Riordan needs you back in Ferelden,” said Georg.

Malcolm narrowed his eyes, instantly understanding what the First Warden was getting at. “No.”

“Hear me out.” When Malcolm crossed his arms and sat back in his seat, saying nothing, Georg continued, “That will leave half the Wardens with Riordan in Denerim. With you as his second, you can be appointed the arl in his stead and run the arling and the contingent of Wardens you will have from Vigil’s Keep. At least, I think that’s the name Howe gave the castle he maintained. Anyway, I’m sure the banns won’t have any issue with you being the arl. Besides, with how you were raised, you already know how to do the job. You can train someone to be your second, or find a proper seneschal, as I’m fairly certain you won’t want to keep on Howe’s old one, in time for you to take over for Riordan entirely.”

“Take over for him entirely?” Though Malcolm had already had this discussion with Riordan, it felt more real, and more foreboding, hearing the First Warden talking about it. Riordan’s Calling was soon and they all knew it. Once he was gone, someone would have to replace him as Warden Commander. And that someone couldn’t be an Orlesian or other non-Fereldan. That left Alistair, him, Líadan, and Oghren. Being Dalish, Líadan wouldn’t be accepted by the banns. Oghren, aside from the fact that he was a dwarf, was drunk too much to be able to handle it. Alistair was too busy being king, much less trying to be a Warden. That left Malcolm, as prince and Warden, able to switch back and forth between court and Warden matters at will. Maker help him, he needed to find some sort of valid excuse to get out of it. “You realize that I’m twenty, right?”

“Of course I do. I was here at Weisshaupt when you were born.”

“Good, then you realize just how ridiculous this—what?” He’d been so focused on proving he wasn’t a good choice for the eventual Warden Commander appointment that it took Malcolm a moment to catch up to exactly what the First Warden had said.

“I was just over thirty at the time, busy being appointed the First Warden’s Second. Despite how cold the Anders seem, they throw quite the celebration for a babe being born, even if the babe is to be given away soon after.” The memory brought a grin to the First Warden’s face. “They apparently celebrated just as much when your brother Alistair was born. I suppose they just need a really, really good excuse to throw a party. It certainly fooled me about how these Anders people truly were. Imagine my surprise a week later, now the Second Warden, and discovering that the dour people I saw all around me would be here to stay unless somehow another child was born here at the Fortress. And in case you’re wondering, there hasn’t been in the twenty years since. I _think_ tonight might count as a celebration considering we’re marking the end of the Fifth Blight, but I don’t want to get my hopes up. Anyway, don’t start in on how you’re only twenty and therefore the banns and Wardens will never follow you. That’s a load of crap and you know it. You helped end a Blight, you’ve been trained in leadership since you could walk, and people just tend to follow you, in spite of your youth. You’re just looking for excuses anyway, but all of that doesn’t have to be decided right now, here today.” Georg snatched up a sheaf of papers and straightened them by knocking them against his desk. “Now. About tonight. Because King Hagan and his retinue will be in attendance to the memorial and feast, you’ll be expected to attend as both Grey Warden and Prince of Ferelden.”

Malcolm sighed heavily. “I’m not a very good prince, you know. I tend to misbehave even when I’m trying not to.”

The First Warden shrugged. “It’s the plight of younger sons everywhere. None of the princes I knew were much better. One thing you will need to watch out for is Astrid and other Wardens like her. She is very rigid in her beliefs and ways, as I’m sure you’ve figured out. I’m not surprised you didn’t kill Morrigan after she presented her little deal to you, and I don’t fault you for it. Most Wardens won’t, I’m sure. They won’t be as open about it as I am and will probably just  keep their counsel on it like Marius did at the end of our meeting—you’ll notice that he did calm down once he heard the entire story. But Astrid, well, you saw. She’ll most likely continue to be vocal, as will the others of her ilk. I could put a stop to it immediately, but that will make it fester. She’s Second Warden, so I expect she’ll behave during official functions. But be prepared, otherwise, for some discussions.”

“You mean arguments.”

“Debates, preferably. You know, arguments without all the shouting. I hope you’re familiar with them. I’ll need some time to figure out this mess with Morrigan and what course of action to take. We’ve a library here, so if you could do some research about her and this Flemeth while you’re here, that would be something helpful. I ask you instead of one of our scholars or scribes only because you’re a native Fereldan, so you’ll know what sorts of things to skip over in the history books. While you’re here, feel free to ask as many questions as you want and people will do their best to answer them. Even though you’ve ended a Blight, I know you’re new to the Order. Oh, speaking of, make sure you and Líadan see the quartermaster before the ceremony this afternoon. Wardens aren’t required to wear the same armor, but we do have a tabard for official functions and when we’re officially representing the Order out in Thedas. You can also pick up any armor you might need, though the set of heavy mail you have currently is quite impressive, but there’s cloaks and other things of the like you might want, all with our heraldry. Helps with being recognized on the road. Bandits tend to leave Wardens alone if they can recognize them in time.” Georg stood up. “I’ll let you know when we’ll be meeting again. Marius will find you regarding training other warriors with the templar techniques. Don’t worry, the man doesn’t bite. He respects you well enough. Make yourself comfortable here, do research, train, spar, whatever you want. But if you’ll excuse me for now, I’ve got much to sort through.”

Malcolm inclined his head and left the First Warden’s office as quickly as dignity allowed him. Already, the study represented the possibility of responsibility in terms of what it held for his future in Ferelden. It looked like he wouldn’t be going anywhere but back to his home country. Though he knew the First Warden was trying to get him to voluntarily accept going back, he knew if he didn’t agree, he’d be ordered to do it anyway. Were he in Georg’s position, he’d do the same. It wasn’t like there was any other option available for the position. Though the Blight was over, duty wasn’t, and it didn’t look like it would be for a long time, if ever. He’d noticed that Georg had had him keep the journal, so he knew he was supposed to read it, and decide the fate of Soldier’s Peak, at least for the immediate future. 

Outside the First Warden’s office, he was surprised and a bit disappointed to see that Líadan hadn’t waited for him, and neither had Gunnar, for that matter. Then again, he should be relieved, because that meant a respite from being teased, albeit at the price of being lost in the Fortress soon enough. His stomach drove him to find the mess hall once again, where he discovered food was always out and ready, ever the Grey Warden facility the Fortress was. It made sense, as there were over five hundred Wardens here, all with taint-driven appetites. Sleep during the Blight, with five hundred nightmares all at once, must have been miserable. And for any unfortunate soul to be awake on watch during that time, what with the screaming, must have been horrifying. Food procured, it took Malcolm four tries to find the proper directions to the library. Unwilling to press his luck, he decided he’d find Líadan and visit the quartermaster later. 

Weisshaupt’s library, with its long windows, was bright and airy, at least compared to the rest of the Fortress. Malcolm hadn’t voluntarily gone into a library since he was a small child. His tutor Aldous scarcely would’ve believed it. But ever since he’d first dealt with Flemeth, he’d been curious about her. There’d also been the memory that he’d been taught something about Flemeth concerning Highever. Morrigan had once told him Flemeth’s story, at least her version, however much that was to be believed. While she hadn’t mentioned Highever, the name Conobar had been familiar. Malcolm quickly found the volume he wanted, _Fereldan Myths and Legends_ , and sat down to browse. 

There it was: _Flemeth and Conobar_.

_Ages ago, legend says Bann Conobar took to wife a beautiful young woman who harbored a secret talent for magic: Flemeth of Highever. And for a time they lived happily, until the arrival of a young poet, Osen, who captured the lady’s heart with his verse._

_They turned to the Chasind tribes for help and hid from Conobar’s wrath in the Wilds, until word came to them that Conobar lay dying: his last wish was to see Flemeth’s face one final time._

_The lovers returned, but it was a trap. Conobar killed Osen, and imprisoned Flemeth in the highest tower of the castle. In grief and rage, Flemeth worked a spell to summon a spirit into this world to wreak vengeance upon her husband. Vengeance, she received, but not as she planned. The spirit took possession of her, turning Flemeth into an abomination. A twisted, maddened creature, she slaughtered Conobar and all his men, and fled back into the Wilds._

_For a hundred years, Flemeth plotted, stealing men from the Chasind to sire monstrous daughters: horrific things that could kill a man with fear. These Korcari witches led an army of Chasind from the Wilds to strike at the Alamarri tribes. They were defeated by the hero Cormac, and all the witches burned, so they say, but even now the Wilders whisper that Flemeth lives on in the marsh, and she and her daughters steal those men who come too near._

Malcolm sat back, one page of the book caught between his index and middle finger as he mulled over what he’d read. It matched, mostly, with the story Morrigan had told him. Of course, in Morrigan’s version, Flemeth hadn’t fallen in love—it had been about power and money. Osen had been her husband, not Conobar. And the lord had offered a deal to Osen for Flemeth. And the witch had agreed to it, and only became angry when Conobar reneged on the deal and killed Osen instead of paying him. Which, to Malcolm, seemed in character with both Flemeth and Morrigan. Morrigan had also explained that Flemeth had never led any army of Chasind and that part of the story was a lie perpetuated by Cormac as an excuse for his war. Malcolm was inclined to believe that. Flemeth didn’t really _need_ an army if she wanted to do anything. She was that powerful.

He also knew that the story he’d just read had left out some information about Conobar. The lord in question had been Bann Conobar Elstan of Highever, the last of the Elstan family, who’d been cousins to the Howe family, and had reigned over Highever since the Divine Age. Conobar had been murdered by his wife Flemeth in the Tower Age, which ended the bloodline. It had been Conobar’s Captain of the Guard, Sarim Cousland, who’d assumed the lands and title after that. Since then, for five hundred years, the Couslands had been the lords of Highever, after declaring their independence from Amaranthine. A thirty year war between Highever and Amaranthine followed, and in the end, Highever had won, and not only kept their own lands, but took half of what was once southwestern Amaranthine. Some of that history almost made Howe’s treachery understandable—in his mind, he’d been reconquering lands that had once been part of Amaranthine’s domain. But, Highever had moved beyond being a mere bannorn and into a teyrnir when numerous banns swore loyalty to Highever during the werewolf threats of the Black Age. 

And Flemeth had made all of that possible, in a way. If she hadn’t killed Conobar, Sarim Cousland never would have been able to take over Highever. Strange, how it all connected. And the more he read about Flemeth, the more it scared him. Scared him more than the prospect of facing down an archdemon ever did.

He flipped the pages, searching for more clues, and they fell open to another legend. This one didn’t mention Flemeth, but caught his eye nonetheless because of a note scribbled in the margin. He squinted to make out the handwriting: _I think this is real! If I has ashes, and the chance to go back to the Korcari Wilds, I would try it. There was a pile of rocks underneath an overhang overlooking Tevinter dome half-sunken into a lake that looked like it might fit the description given in this text._

Malcolm frowned and read the entry.

_The Korcari Wilds are rife with legends and myths that have amazed and confounded scholars since the fall of Ostagar in ancient times._

_One such mystery lies behind the tale of Astia and Nebbunar, two young lovers who lived in Ostagar. The legend says that Astia grew up in the company of Gazarath, a spirit of the earth bound to an overhang on the bank of a lake in the Korcari Wilds. Gazarath began to fancy her, and they spent much of their days together, talking and laughing. Over the years, however, Astia became a woman and began to seek the company of men._

_When Astia met Nebbunar, the two fell in love, and Astia hoped to bring her lover to see her spirit friend. But the spirit, angered and jealous, bade her begone. Gazarath told her that she would never see it again until she brought her lover’s ashes and sprinkled them over the spot._

_Astia was horrified, and she fled from the enraged spirit. But she began to miss Gazarath, and on the day Nebbunar asked her to marry him, she cut her beloved’s throat, burned him, and brought his ashes to Gazarath, knowing that their marriage would forever sever her ties to her dear spirit friend._

_There are legends among the Chasind that Gazarath still haunts that lake, and that those who sprinkle ashes of the deceased over the right spot can summon the spirit. In memory of the contract with its beloved Astia, Gazarath will grant a single wish then vanish, never to be heard from again._

A wish? A single wish. So many things could be done with a single wish, such as finding Morrigan. Finding out the truth of what had happened the night before the battle with the archdemon. Determining if they need search for Morrigan at all or if they worried over nothing. He would have to search for this spirit and try to gain this wish, to see what he could change, what he could fix.

Continuing to look through the book, Malcolm caught mention of Morrigan’s name in another entry. Well, not quite her name, but it was certainly a variation: _Morrighan’nan_. A quick read-through of the legend revealed that she had been the leader of the Avvar tribe who’d warred against the Alamarri in the ancient times. She had seduced the leader of the Alamarri, Luthias. When he spurned her offer of marriage, she left in fury, and that’s when the war between the two tribes started. The spurning and fury was certainly familiar enough to Malcolm. It hadn’t been marriage, but it’d been a deal, and when he’d refused it, she’d gotten angry and left him over it. He sighed and went over the rest of the story. Fifteen years later during a significant battle, a young Avvar warrior had challenged Luthias to single combat. Luthias had won, barely, and killed the boy he’d fought. Afterward, Morrighan’nan had revealed the boy to be hers and Luthias’s son from their union fifteen years before. 

The thought horrified Malcolm. Morrigan had wanted to conceive a child, one who would receive the soul of an Old God. Would that child have reappeared and challenged him or his brother in some way for control of Ferelden as a Theirin heir? Sure, the child would have been a bastard, but he and his brother were bastards and had become the heirs anyway. While that threat was gone, as he hadn’t taken the deal, someone _had_ taken the deal, or Riordan would be dead. There was no way around it. 

Zevran must have conceived a child with Morrigan, and now that child had the soul of an Old God. Urthemiel would be reborn in less than six months. The Old God would be a beacon to the darkspawn, leading them to the surface, a Blight even before they could reach Urthemiel and make it an archdemon again. It would be a race between the Grey Wardens to find and slay the Old God, whether in the form of a child or were it still inside Morrigan, before the darkspawn could reach her or the child and taint it, making it an official Blight. But the path was clear to him, more clear than he ever would have liked. His entire body went numb at the realization.

Morrigan had to die.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

“Heed our words

hear our cry

the Grey are sworn

in peace we lie.”

— _The Ballad of Ayesleigh_ , 5:20 Exalted

**Líadan**

Líadan concentrated on the cold.

If she could just keep her thoughts on the cold wind howling in through the sides of the mountains around them, and not on the words of the First Warden as they finished the entombment process for Zevran’s body, she would be okay. She would not fly into a rage at her dead friend’s body over his stupid decisions. How the idiot had obviously slept with his best friend’s love in order to save them all. And, in the ultimate of cowardice, gotten himself killed during the battle so he wouldn’t have to face the consequences. Líadan wasn’t sure who she was more angry at—Zevran or Morrigan. Two people she’d once thought were friends who had betrayed them all. 

When she’d first been involuntarily brought into the small group of people, the last little band who fought the true enemy of them all, the Blight, she’d thought she’d found in Morrigan a sister of sorts. Something she’d never expected even within her own clan, much less in a shem allied with a group of other shems who’d made her a Grey Warden against her will. But Morrigan had proven different. She understood the Dalish. She understood the forest, what she called ‘her wilds’ and the life within it. She’d kindly taught a curious Líadan what she could of shapeshifting, though the elf had never gotten good at it. Morrigan had joked with her that even though she possessed the connection with the Fade that made her a mage, it seemed she was more meant to be the Dalish hunter she preferred to be. She was lucky, Morrigan had said, that she was born a Dalish, and not a human. And not for reasons others might guess—after all, in Thedas, it was a better lot to be born a human, to most—but because, as a Dalish elf, she’d escaped the fate of the Circle Tower despite her being a mage. 

In Morrigan, she’d found a kindred soul, another person raised apart from civilization and a stranger to its ways. But Morrigan had made her think a lot of things she’d never considered before, such as forgiveness. It had been Morrigan, not Riordan, who’d helped Líadan realize that Malcolm was a good man, and not the evil best-friend killer Grey Warden she’d made him out to be. And it was that forgiveness that helped her move past her best friend’s death and learn to continue living. Then Morrigan had betrayed them. She had revealed her true self, that all she’d wanted from any of this was the power she’d have in a child with the soul of an Old God. She’d stopped at nothing to get it—including laying with a man who had been her lover’s best friend.

Zevran. He’d pursued her, the wily Antivan, but she had never given in to his charms. Once, he’d asked her why, and she’d opened up and told her fellow elf about Tamlen. About how they had always remained friends, never moving beyond that because of her own reticence. And how she mourned both the loss of him as her friend in her life, and what now could never be. Zevran had respected that, though he always flirted with her, as that was his way. She supposed the others assumed she was sleeping with him, given how he acted and how close he stayed to her. But she never had, and she’d never planned to. He’d been the brother she’d never had, once she learned to ignore his neverending flirting. But, even that was part of his charm. It was also part of his defense, his way of keeping the world at bay and far from how he truly felt. For all his act, in the end, it was just that: an act. He was a man who felt deeply, and who had experienced deep, painful losses. After she’d told him about Tamlen, he’d told her about Rinna, and there, they found and formed their own bond. 

And then he’d gone and gotten himself killed.

Sure, she’d taken note that it was in the guise of keeping her from doing the same. But, like Malcolm, she’d seen the smile on Zevran’s face as he fell out of sight to meet his death on the cobblestone streets far below the rooftop. Later, when Malcolm had told the rest of the Wardens about the deal Morrigan had offered, everything had suddenly made sense. How the night before that final battle, why Malcolm had looked so forlorn when everything else seemed so hopeful. The look on his face had reminded her of how Alistair had looked just after Leliana died—a broken, stark contrast to the optimism brimming around them. Why she’d seen a wolf like the one Morrigan turned into trotting away from camp, its golden eyes sad and shattered, yet oddly determined. Why Zevran wouldn’t look her in the eye the next morning when she’d asked where he’d been. He’d never been shy about camp conquests before, but he had that last morning. 

When Malcolm told them, she’d wanted to shout at him that he’d been betrayed. Instead, she’d forced herself to give a calm explanation of her thoughts on the matter, even as she thought of several ways she could get even with both the elf and the witch for what they’d done, if either of them had been reachable. Líadan held less anger for Zevran. He’d done it out of short-sighted soft heartedness. Morrigan, though, she’d known exactly what she was doing. Had she given even one thought to respecting Malcolm’s wishes after he’d refused her? Líadan doubted it. Most likely, she went straight from Malcolm to Zevran. And she’d thought she’d been as angry as she’d ever get on first hearing the story, but once Malcolm had explained Morrigan’s reasons for leaving them, her fury had gone beyond any lengths of anger she’d ever felt before.

Morrigan had left them because Malcolm had refused to give her what she wanted. But, after she’d left Malcolm and gone to Zevran, the Antivan had given her what she’d wanted. Yet she still hadn’t stayed, even though now she wouldn’t have to watch Malcolm die out of his own stubbornness. She’d gotten her stupid ritual and she should have stayed and helped and she hadn’t. Morrigan abandoned them. She’d abandoned them all, and Líadan wanted to _kick_ Malcolm for being so hurt by it. He should be angry, furious, and never want to see the woman again unless it was to confront her about her betrayal. Instead, every time someone mentioned Morrigan, he looked like a kicked puppy. 

And Líadan had no idea why that made her so upset, but it _did_ , and that just made her all the more angry.

She held in a sigh as the First Warden finished his speech with what she remembered to be the oath Zevran had recited at her Joining. Then, as they watched, six burly Wardens moved forward and slid the heavy stone slab over Zevran’s sarcophagus, sealing the elf’s body within forever. Carvings and inscriptions had already been made in the stone, detailing the exploits of the Fifth Blight from start to finish. And there, along one entire side, was the bas-relief carving of an elf riding a dragon. The illustration of Urthemiel’s death at Zevran’s hands.

Which, of course, wasn’t how the archdemon had died at all, but they had to maintain the illusion. The First Warden brought the memorial to a close, and there was a final salute from all of the five hundred and more Wardens present, fists crossed on chests, heads bowed, and a moment of silence. Then they were dismissed to the dining hall, where a feast awaited. The celebration for the end of the shortest Blight ever to have struck Thedas.

Líadan didn’t move, waiting for everyone else to file past, perhaps wanting a final chance to yell at her friend in private. She glowered at the sarcophagus and wondered if she cast rock armor on herself and kicked it, if she’d make a hole in it. Part of her was tempted to find out. The other part of her informed her that she’d probably break her foot and she couldn’t do a bit of healing to save face if that happened. So she stayed her foot and reached out with her hand instead once the rest of the Grey Wardens had gone inside. Her fingertips traced the stone carving, moving along the curve of the dragon’s back, the arc of the wing, the cut from his sword. “What did you do?” she whispered, fingers dropping away from the cold granite. “Whatever you did, thank you, I suppose, for crippling the archdemon. But not for dying. You get no thanks for that.” But the stone said nothing, giving her no indication that her friend had heard. She gave the sarcophagus a final glare, spun on her heel, and walked away.

She found her other friend waiting by the doorway, shivering inside the depths of his woolen cloak, though he now wore a thicker, blue one bearing the rampant griffon Warden heraldry, courtesy of the quartermaster. Líadan had her anger to keep her warm and had yet to truly feel the cold, even as she’d tried to for distraction’s sake. “I thought you were going to kick that thing,” Malcolm said as soon as she was within earshot. “You had that look in your eye.”

“Didn’t want to break my foot,” she replied, falling into step next to him as they made their way into the fortress.

“Good call.” He tilted his head to the side and studied her again. “Aren’t you cold?”

“You’re cold enough for both of us, I think.”

He grimaced. “Okay, I’ll give you that one.”

In the dining hall, they found the rest of the Grey Wardens in full celebration mode, wine and ale already flowing as freely as the food. Alcohol had brought color to the cheeks of the normally pale Anders, and smiles where both of the Fereldans were certain smiles had never been before. Líadan squinted at what she thought was the Senior Warden who was in charge of the warrior training. “Is that _Marius_ smiling?” she asked.

Malcolm looked in the direction she was. “I believe so. You know, the last time these people celebrated was...” then he trailed off, his face revealing that he’d already told too much.

She felt like rolling her eyes. Malcolm was probably going to mention something about when he was born, and had remembered that he’d never told her about where he was truly born or who his mother was. But, as her traveling companions frequently forgot, she had elven hearing. Elves heard much, much more than humans ever thought they could. And before the Landsmeet, she’d heard the argument Alistair and Malcolm had had over their mother. Luckily, there hadn’t been an elven servant within elven earshot—she’d gone and checked—but she’d heard nonetheless. Between that argument and other accidentally overheard conversations in camp and while traveling during the Blight, she knew exactly who Malcolm’s mother was. 

When they’d first met Fiona the other night, and Líadan had realized exactly who she was, she’d expected to dislike, if not hate, the woman. After all, she had given away her friend when he was just a babe, and not involved herself in his life since, even though she was his mother. But after interacting with her, she’d discovered that not only did she not hate her fellow elven mage, she rather liked her. And because of that, she’d given more thought to why Fiona would have given her son away, and realized that the other woman had had no other recourse. As a Grey Warden assigned here in Weisshaupt, she couldn’t raise the boy on her own. And Maric certainly couldn’t have raised either of his bastard children at court. While the plans for Alistair’s life had fallen apart due to Eamon being unable to stand up to his Orlesian harridan of a wife, Malcolm’s life had turned out fairly well, all things considered. At least up until the part where that Arl Howe person had killed almost everyone Malcolm had ever considered family. 

So Líadan had decided that while they were here at Weisshaupt, she would make sure Malcolm and Fiona would acknowledge who they were to each other. She could tell neither of them had plans to do so, each of them dancing around interacting with each other at all, only doing so when forced. She wouldn’t force the issue now, not at a state dinner and celebration such as this was. The right moment would have to be found. But it would be done, she’d make sure of it. Despite what Malcolm had lost, he still had some family. While it couldn’t be acknowledged in Ferelden, it could be acknowledged here in far away Weisshaupt. 

“...after the last Blight?” Líadan offered, trying to help Malcolm out of his verbal stumble.

“Something like that, I imagine,” he replied. “The First Warden is giving us a ‘get over here’ look. The same one Eamon gives. I guess we should go.”

Líadan glanced over at the dais and discovered her friend was right. Only a few hundred or so reveling Wardens waited between them and their destination, and the elf balked at the sheer number of bodies. Noticing her discomfort, Malcolm proffered the crook of his arm and she slid her own through it, feeling a bit better while connected to her friend. Once they walked over, Georg introduced the newcomers to the King of the Anderfels, Hagan, and his advisors. Malcolm remained mostly calm, only becoming flustered when one of Hagan’s cronies became overly effusive in his praise. But once he started blushing, it was hard for him to stop, even if the ale hadn’t been helping matters along. Líadan kept to the watered-down ale throughout the night. While she had every confidence in her ability to navigate the confusing maze of hallways that were Weisshaupt Fortress, she only had said confidence while sober. Tipsy, or Creators-forbid, intoxicated, she probably would end up lost. Though, she had to say, the cup of mead she’d had was really good.

Something warm and heavy rested on her leg and she tensed and looked down, prepared to teach some overzealous stranger a vicious lesson about propriety, but found it was only Gunnar’s begging muzzle. Líadan fetched a scrap of meat from her plate and slipped it to the wardog under the table. 

Malcolm leaned over. “I saw that. Don’t think I didn’t. You’re going to spoil him.”

“I am not. Besides, I’ve seen you do the same thing. I’m only following your example.”

“My example is a horrible one to follow in any circumstance. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. They’re all delusional. You’ve even told them that.”

She grinned at him. “I lied.” Then she nudged him in the side with her elbow. “Also, I think that princess over there is making moony eyes at you. Hagan’s granddaughter, I think Georg said? Yeah, definitely making eyes at you.”

Malcolm’s deep blue eyes widened in horror in the direction of the princess in question. She was of the right age, Líadan knew, and did happen to be beautiful. Maybe getting together with her would get Malcolm’s mind off Morrigan, even though the very idea of Malcolm being with that vapid woman set Líadan’s teeth on edge. “Maker, I hope not,” said Malcolm. “Have you heard her talking tonight? I don’t think she’s got a wisp of a brain in between those ears of hers. I think Gunnar could walk intellectual circles around her.”

Between them, Gunnar whined quietly.

Malcolm’s eyes flicked down toward his dog. “Okay, I _know_ you could walk intellectual circles around her. Is that better?”

The dog licked his master’s hand in reply then gave him a doggy grin.

Líadan glanced over at the princess—Ilsa, Elsa—she couldn’t quite remember the woman’s name, but it was something like that. Yes, she was fawning over Malcolm. Part of her was highly amused at how horrified her friend was, the other part, entirely not happy with the situation. She chuckled as Malcolm started to squirm under the princess’s adoring gaze.

“Stop laughing at me,” Malcolm said quietly, catching on immediately. “You keep doing that and I’m going to end up saying something awful and putting my foot firmly in my mouth and I’ve managed to behave tonight. I think Eamon would be proud. Or impressed. Actually, he’d most likely be entirely shocked and might’ve had a stroke at the suspense of waiting for me to do something horrifically impolitic.”

“Usually the wait isn’t that long.”

“I _know_. I think I’ve set a record for proper behavior tonight. I should make a getaway before I ruin it, but I think Princess What’s-Her-Name would notice, and probably follow me.”

Líadan covered her mouth as giggles broke through her control when she imagined her friend trying to frantically get away from the clutches of the princess. This would provide ammunition for teasing him for days. Weeks, even, if she told the story to the others when they got back to Ferelden. And the alcohol had started making his eyes shine, a sure indication that Malcolm was on his way to becoming more intoxicated than was safe. Frowning, she swapped out his full-strength ale for her watered-down ale while he wasn’t looking. She had no want to have to search for him when he managed to get himself lost in the corridors. Once was enough, thank you very much. Líadan signaled for one of the many servants to switch out the ale in front of her so she wouldn’t mistakenly drink the full strength. 

Gunnar, giving up on his master and Líadan, went to the person on Líadan’s right and tried his puppy face there. Fiona fell more rapidly to the mabari’s charms than even Líadan had, almost immediately tossing him a bit of beef from her mostly empty plate. Gunnar snatched the bit from midair and happily gulped it down before plunking his head on Fiona’s leg and gazing up at her with adoring eyes.

“I think you’ve found a friend,” Líadan said to her. “You gave in awfully fast.”

The other elf smiled a little. “I have a soft spot for wardogs. Once you have one save your life, you foster a newfound and lifelong appreciation for them.”

Líadan nodded. “True.”

Fiona leaned closer to her and inclined her head to indicate Malcolm. “Is he drunk?”

She narrowed her eyes and studied her friend more closely. “Not quite, but getting there.” Princess Vapid had now started leaning across the table, giving Malcolm full view down her dress at her most ample bosom. Malcolm had noticed and panic flickered at the edges of his eyes as he tried to look anywhere else, and kept getting drawn back to the princess and her flaunting bits. Líadan couldn’t blame him. Even for someone not attracted to the princess’s gender, the bosoms on display were rather distracting. Malcolm started tossing worried looks that clearly said ‘help me’ in Líadan’s direction when the princess didn’t relent in her wanton display. Líadan snickered and Malcolm put his hand over his face.

“Princess Ilsa seems awfully taken with him,” Fiona whispered.

“ _That_ was the name,” Líadan said. “And I know. He can’t stand it. Told me that the princess has not a speck of intelligence.”

Fiona raised an eyebrow. “Though she seems determined to show him her other assets.”

Líadan realized that Fiona was having an almost motherly reaction in protecting the son she’d yet to acknowledge and had to stop herself from laughing. Clearly, though the woman was a princess, Fiona felt that said princess wasn’t good enough for her son. Though Líadan wasn’t a relative of Malcolm’s, she felt the same way. This woman seemed nothing but a royalty-grubbing, empty-headed harlot who had no business being around him. While Morrigan had turned out to be a betraying bitch in the end, at least she’d been an intellectual match, in addition to her beauty. 

“Tell me, Prince Malcolm,” said Princess Ilsa, “where did you get that lovely scar?”

The warmth and slight amusement the ale had brought to Malcolm’s eyes disappeared, replaced almost instantly with sorrow and regret. Líadan recognized it. He’d thought of Morrigan. That damn scar. And damn Ilsa for bringing it up. “Darkspawn,” Malcolm said quickly, his voice rough even as he tried to cover it with speed in his answer.

“Darkspawn?” Ilsa repeated, not catching on to Malcolm’s shift in mood. Her hand reached out across the table to touch it, and Malcolm caught her wrist just before she reached his cheek.

He shook his head. “Don’t.” Malcolm held the princess’s gaze for a moment, his hard look warning her to leave the issue be. Then he let go of her arm.

She took it back quickly, almost cradling her wrist. “I guess no one is supposed to touch his _Majesty_ ,” she said, her tone having shifted from flirting to venomous.

“Or maybe Malcolm is a normal person who happens to like his personal space,” Líadan said, already annoyed at this Ilsa having inadvertently brought up Morrigan. 

The princess raised an imperious eyebrow at Líadan. “And who are you to speak for him, elf?”

“His friend who fought at his side for months during a Blight,” she replied, taking Malcolm by the arm and standing up. “I think it’s time for us to go.” _Before I lose my temper and punch you in the face, Princess_ , Líadan thought. “Good night,” she said. Malcolm went with her, without complaint, Gunnar trotting at his side.

Once they were outside the dining hall, he said, “My hero! Thank you for saving me. ”

Líadan smiled up at him. “That’s what I’m here for. Can you find your way back to your room or do you need help again?”

Malcolm studied the corridor in front of them, confusion etched on his face. “I suppose I could find my way back. In maybe two or three weeks, but eventually I’d get there.” He frowned. “No, I think I need help, as much as I’d like to be able to get there myself. Dammit. I’d blame it on the ale, but we both know that’s not true.”

“Come on, then,” she said, and pulled him in the proper direction. 

Malcolm shook his head in chagrin as they walked. “What an awful woman. How could that man just sit there and let his granddaughter act like that in front of him? How could she think I’d even _like_ that sort of thing?”

“You’re male,” Líadan replied. “And she was rather... showy. You looked, I saw you.”

He grinned down at her. “ _You_ looked and I happen to know you aren’t even attracted to women. They were just kind of... out there. Saying hello to everyone who happened to glance vaguely in her direction.”

Smiling at her friend’s observation, Líadan propelled Malcolm through the now-open door and into his room. “We’re here. Make sure to drink a cup of water before you go to sleep or you’ll have a hangover in the morning. Remember, I’m a mage, but I’m not Wynne, or even Morrigan, and I can’t heal you. So if you don’t follow my directions, you’ll have to suffer through the hangover.”

Malcolm allowed his momentum to move him to his bed, where he sat down and tilted his head to the side as he studied his friend. “No, you aren’t Morrigan,” he said softly, a strange look in his eyes that Líadan hadn’t seen before, and it unnerved her.

She straightened from leaning against the doorway. “Remember what I said or you’ll regret it in the morning.”

He waved her off and fell back onto the bed. She snorted and laughed, told him good night, and left him to his fate. Knowing which of his charges needed more careful observation, Gunnar stayed with Malcolm.

Morning found her pummeling away at one of the straw-filled training dummies in Weisshaupt’s main practice yard. Silverite sword and dagger glinted in the early morning light. This morning Líadan was practicing closing the distance between her and her opponent if her blade was caught in a circle parry. With her dagger, she should be able to bring it to bear and deliver a significant blow as long as she stepped inside far enough where her short blade would have the advantage. Otherwise, she would be in serious trouble to be so overpowered. But once inside, she had the upper hand, so to speak. She had her choice of critical places to hit, the ability to choose if she wanted to go for a weak spot to cripple, or a weak spot to kill. These moves were easier to practice with a partner over an unmoving dummy, but she wasn’t about to ask any of the Weisshaupt people, and she doubted Malcolm had awakened yet, not with how much ale he’d had at the feast.

And the look he’d given her after she’d mentioned Morrigan had been at once familiar and unfamiliar. Strange in that she’d seen it before, but never directed at her, and if she were honest with herself, which she usually was this early in the day, it freaked her out a little. She wasn’t sure if it was an unwelcome look or not, and she wasn’t sure if Malcolm knew he’d even given it. Probably not. And she wouldn’t be mentioning it, that much was certain.

She stepped in again and jabbed the dagger up and under where a helmet would have been were the dummy wearing one.

“You aren’t using magic,” said a quiet voice from behind her.

Líadan pulled the dagger from the dummy’s neck and sheathed it as she turned around to face the voice’s owner, Fiona. “No. I’ve trained so much that usually I don’t need magic to wield weapons. If I use magic at all in regards to arms, it’s usually to relieve fatigue from armor. Otherwise, I like using magic for more offensive stuff. Say, lightning, fireballs, fun things like that.”

Fiona folded her arms across her silverite hauberk and raised a bemused eyebrow. “Such as zapping your fellow Wardens when you push them?”

Líadan grinned and sheathed her sword, at the same time wondering where she’d stashed her staff. She really needed to figure out a way to combine the two, or find a sword that could channel magic like a staff. Choosing between sword and staff could be such a pain. “I’ll have you know that your son entirely deserved what he got,” she said. 

And there it was. She hadn’t meant to confront Fiona about Malcolm right _then_ , but it’d slipped out and there wasn’t any way to take it back.

On her part, Fiona reacted rather calmly, her brown eyes widening just the tiniest bit. “So you know.”

“Yes.” Líadan refused to look away from her fellow elf’s penetrating gaze. “And Malcolm and Alistair don’t know that I know. Though, he does know who you are. At least, I figure he does. He’s pretty smart and I’m sure he’s put it together. I mean, you fit all the descriptions, and you’re the right age.”

Fiona’s hands played with the fringe of her hauberk. “He hasn’t said anything.”

Líadan shrugged. “Neither have you. I guess you’re both stubborn like that. And I doubt he’ll say anything first. I think, right now, he’s a bit too tender for that emotionally.” She motioned toward her face. “You know that bit last night where that vapid whore of a princess asked him about his scar and he got all weird? It has to do with Morrigan. She... did a number on him, for lack of a better description, with what she pulled before the battle with the archdemon. But the story he told me was that he’d gotten the injury in one of his first fights with the darkspawn, before his Joining. Morrigan had met him and Alistair and the others in their party in the Wilds and she’d tried to heal it for him. She wasn’t well-trained in the healing arts, but was powerful enough to heal it as much as Wynne, one of the best healers out there, would have been able to. I guess the blade that cut him was enchanted or something. Anyway, the scar reminds him of Morrigan, and he never needs extra reminders.”

“She hurt him, then,” said Fiona. “I had thought as much, listening to him yesterday.”

“He should be _mad_ ,” Líadan said, catching sight of her staff and heading towards it. “But if he is, he doesn’t show it. He just seems hurt instead.”

“If he’s anything like his father, he’ll continue to be hurt over letting himself be angry for a long time.”

Líadan grabbed her staff and traced the lines in the polished wood. “From what I’ve heard, he’s a lot like Maric.”

Fiona nodded. “From what I’ve seen, I agree. He’s much like Maric. So much so that it’s almost painful at times.” She gave Líadan a rueful smile. “I’m not sure why I told you that.”

“Who else would you tell?” She spun her staff around in slow circles, wondering how effective she could be in melee combat with it if she somehow managed to affix a blade to one end of it. Even if it didn’t quite work the way she wanted it to, it would still look pretty cool. Perhaps even badass, to use one of Malcolm’s terms. “So did Princess Vapid fawn over anyone else after we left last night or was Malcolm her sole target?”

Fiona made a face. “She seemed to recover rather quickly. I doubt she was ever drunk in the first place. She also announced that you must be his lover, by the way.”

Líadan’s cheeks flushed immediately and fully. “I’m not!”

“You protected him like one, or at least, that’s what Ilsa saw. Even if you were, no one would care, by the way, except her. I suspect she wanted to put him in a compromising position so he’d have to take her with him when he goes back to Ferelden. Part of me can’t blame her, this _is_ the Anderfels, after all. But, I think she’s afraid of you, so Malcolm is safe from her as long as you’re around. Since you don’t like her, you might as well use her assumption to your advantage.” She shrugged. “We probably won’t see her again around here before you and Malcolm leave, anyway. Once Georg decides what to do in regards to Morrigan, I’m sure he’ll be sending you back to Ferelden, with orders for Malcolm to accept a place as Riordan’s second.”

“He doesn’t want to do it.”

“He will anyway. He’ll view it as his duty,” Fiona said quietly, sounding somewhat resigned. 

Líadan suspected the acceptance of duty was a familial trait Malcolm got from his father. Though, from what she knew of the family that’d raised him, they’d been big on duty, as well. Double dose, then. Poor guy. It did help explain how he’d managed to say no to Morrigan’s offer, though. That sense of duty had allowed him to think through the consequences of the ritual had he gone through with it and given him the ability to say no, even in the face of losing the woman he loved. Anger flared through her again, that Morrigan had acted as if she’d loved him, allowed him to believe he’d loved her, and then abandoned him. “I suppose he will,” she said out loud.

“I will what?” Malcolm asked, squinting in pain at the morning light, even though it was fairly weak, as he walked into the training yard.

“Go back to Ferelden,” said Líadan. 

“If I don’t, I’d be abandoning Alistair, and I told him I wouldn’t do that.” He frowned. “And I guess I kind of already did, what with coming up here with Zevran’s body,” he said, rubbing at his forehead as if in pain, which he probably was.

“Told you to drink water before you went to bed. And,” she continued at his plaintive look, “I can’t heal you.”

He scowled. “I forgot about that.”

“You can’t heal at all?” Fiona asked Líadan, sounding surprised. It was warranted surprise, Líadan had to give her that. Most mages possessed at least the _slight_ ability to heal minor wounds. Her? Not even that.

“Not a bit. The keeper of my clan tried teaching me for years. Once I became a Warden, Wynne, a mage who traveled with us who was apparently one of the best healers in her generation, tried to teach me, and it still didn’t take. Not that I haven’t wanted to learn, mind you. I just can’t seem to get the hang of it. You don’t happen to be a good teacher, do you? My keeper was kind of pedantic, and so was Wynne, for that matter—”

Malcolm snorted. “I’ll say.”

Líadan flung a glare at him before finishing, “So maybe that was the problem. I’ll trade you the arcane warrior abilities for you even to attempt at teaching me how to heal.”

Fiona pursed her lips as she considered the offer, and then nodded. “I’ll give it a shot.” She sighed and looked at Malcolm. “Come here, and I’ll heal you, since your friend can’t, and would probably torture you for the rest of the day otherwise.”

“You have to admit, he does look fairly pitiful,” Líadan said as Malcolm happily accepted the healing.

“It’s a defense mechanism,” he said, and then thanked Fiona, relief from the headache obvious on his face. 

Before anyone could say anything further, Wardens started filing into the training yard, weapons clattering against armor, booted feet stirring up the dirt. When Marius appeared, training started in earnest. Malcolm and Líadan ended up talking to both the warriors and mages so that each class could learn of the talents of the other to best know how to work with them as a team in combat. As Malcolm worked with some of the larger warriors, they informed him that he should switch from his heavy chainmail to wearing heavy plate, an idea that Malcolm immediately shot down. “See, I once got flung into a foot of swamp water by a high dragon, and if I’d been wearing plate, I would’ve drowned. On that experience alone, I’m sticking with heavy mail. I’d rather keep the ability to not drown over some extra puncture marks.”

“I thought you fought the archdemon on a rooftop,” one of the other Wardens said.

“Wasn’t the archdemon,” Malcolm replied. “That was a different dragon. Long story.”

Líadan figured he must be talking about Flemeth, Morrigan’s mother, the shapeshifter they’d fought just before they’d found her outside that cave. The Warden accepted Malcolm’s explanation so easily that Líadan assumed the man must’ve been Anders. Anyone else would’ve continued questioning to get the rest of the story. She certainly would have.

After Malcolm indicated to the mages to back away, he showed the warriors a holy smite, using one of his fellow warriors as a target instead of a mage. “It can come in handy when you’re being assaulted too closely by a bunch of darkspawn at once, but really, it’s most useful against emissaries that are determined to set you on fire or put you in a crushing prison. And if you _really_ want to be nice to one of your fellow Wardens, you could always cleanse the area if one of them is suffering from the effects of a spell. My brother always seemed to forget that part a lot.”

“So did you learn templar tricks in case Líadan gets out of line?” another Warden asked.

As Líadan gaped at the man over his question, Malcolm practically doubled over in laughter. The elf moved her glare from the impertinent Weisshaupt Warden to her friend. After a moment, Malcolm calmed down enough to attempt an answer to the man’s question. “The last time Líadan got mad enough at me to use magic, I completely forgot I even had templar abilities and ended up on the wrong end of a lightning spell. My brother hit her with a smite, but it only served to make her _more_ angry, and I don’t think she’s yet to forgive either one of us.”

Líadan frowned and crossed her arms. She’d thought she’d made it apparent to both of them that she had forgiven them, and had a while ago. Maybe she should’ve been more clear. She didn’t want Malcolm thinking she was still mad at him for that. While she mostly believed he’d deserved it, he’d been right to try to keep her quiet. Her loud voice would’ve either attracted darkspawn or more of those awful thaig crawlers. Then she realized her frown would be interpreted in the wrong way right then, communicating that she was still mad at Malcolm when she wasn’t, and she moved the frown’s focus away from her friend and toward the Warden who’d asked the ‘out of line’ question. She’d opened her mouth to address the Warden when a young man burst into the training yard at a run and went straight to Malcolm.

All eyes followed the man as he whispered something in Malcolm’s ear that made him go pale, followed by a scrap of paper that, when Malcolm read it, made his face even more pale. Líadan, with her elven ears, heard what the man had said. There had been an urgent message from Ferelden and the First Warden wanted to see him right away. Malcolm didn’t even bother dismissing the people gathered that he was supposed to train. Instead, he turned and headed straight inside. Líadan exchanged a confused look with Fiona, shrugged, and then followed Malcolm. The Weisshaupt people could dismiss themselves. 

She caught up with him quickly. When he didn’t acknowledge her presence, she touched him gently on the arm to get his attention.“What’s happened?”

He glanced over at her, barely restrained panic in his eyes. “Highever’s been attacked.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

“The Tevinter Imperium would face a new challenge with the coming of the prophet Andraste, and thoughts of the Blight grew distant. With their defeat, the darkspawn were considered no longer a threat, but with the wisdom of hindsight, we all know that conceit proved to be hopeful and foolish indeed. The task of the Grey Wardens was far from over.”

—from _Tales of the Destruction of Thedas_ by Brother Genitivi, Chantry scholar

**Malcolm**

“Sit,” the First Warden said as soon as they passed through his door. 

“Can’t,” Malcolm replied, feeling like all the nervous energy he felt over his brother’s fate was channeling into his legs. He couldn’t sit because he needed to pace, and he needed to pace so that he didn’t run straight back to Highever. How fast could he get back to Ferelden? The journey from Highever to Weisshaupt had taken nearly two months, but they’d had a ridiculous number of stops, and it felt like they’d stayed in Val Royeaux forever. He’d seen the maps and knew it shouldn’t take that long when traveling at a normal rate of speed. Plus, the overland route they’d taken had added even more time. He knew that by sea, they could’ve traveled easily at least twice as fast, if not more, depending on the ship. There wouldn’t be a need to cut through the Hunterhorn Mountains on the way back. There had to be a faster route to a coastal city, either one through Orlais or Nevarra, where he could hop a ship bound for Highever. What route had the messenger taken? It would make sense that a messenger’s route would be the quickest. Except he couldn’t ask the messenger anymore, because the man had gone somewhere else within this cursedly large and confounding fortress.

“Malcolm. Fergus and Alistair are fine. There were no casualties and only a few injuries in the attack.”

The First Warden’s words took a moment to register in Malcolm’s mind, and it took another moment to clear his head enough to respond. “What?”

“I said, your brothers are fine. No one was killed in the attack. Fereldans, I suspect, are quite used to fighting darkspawn, at least as used to it as a non-Warden can get. Now, please sit. You’re making _me_ nervous.” Georg’s last statement was an attempt to lighten the mood somewhat, but the concern couched in his voice made it fall flat. The First Warden, despite what he’d said, was nervous. 

And that made Malcolm more nervous. A glance at Líadan, standing stock-still next to the fireplace, told him that she felt the same. He looked toward the chair nearest him, but didn’t sit. “Then why are you worried?”

Georg sighed, took off his spectacles, and placed them carefully on the desk in front of him. “I will tell you if you will sit down.”

One eye narrowed suspiciously at the First Warden, Malcolm sank slowly into the chair but didn’t relax a single muscle. Georg had just opened his mouth to speak when the study’s door opened. Malcolm was back on his feet at the sound, his hands immediately heading for the hilt of his sword as he turned toward the door.

Astrid came to a sudden stop, eyes taking in Malcolm’s combat readiness before glaring at him. “Stand down, Warden. You are not being attacked within the confines of Weisshaupt Fortress. Maker knows why you insist on wearing armor outside the sparring ring while you’re here.” Without bothering to confirm if Malcolm eased up, Astrid strode the rest of the way into the study.

Just behind her walked Fiona, a glare of her own on the Second Warden. “You aren’t the only one who wears armor at Weisshaupt,” said the dark-haired elf with a quick glance down at her hauberk. Her statement was followed by a jerk of her thumb to indicate behind her, where Marius stood, dragonbone heavy mail shining dully in the light. 

“I like to be prepared,” said Marius at Astrid’s raised eyebrows. “You never know where or when the darkspawn might appear.”

“You say that like darkspawn will erupt straight from the ground beneath you,” said Astrid as she settled into a chair near the First Warden.

“I’m Tevinter. In my home country, it’s been known to happen more than once. You would do well to read more history, Astrid,” came Marius’s droll reply. Fiona had already found a seat, the same one the scribe Torben had sat in the day before. Marius gave Malcolm and Líadan each a quick nod of acknowledgement before dropping into another free chair. “Don’t worry, boy,” he said to Malcolm after a moment. “Your family is fine. Georg would look much more serious were it otherwise. I daresay he’d look Anders were the news dire.”

Astrid huffed but didn’t rise to the Tevinter man’s bait.

Though Malcolm still had no great desire to be seated, since the few others in the room were already sitting, he’d feel like an idiot if he weren’t doing so as well. So he sat down and had to content himself with fidgeting. Then he looked expectantly at Georg. “Well? I’m not getting to Highever any faster.”

That raised the First Warden’s brow. “You expect to be sent to Highever?”

Malcolm met his gaze evenly. “I expect to _go_ to Highever. Whether or not you’ve sent me is another matter entirely.” What he didn’t say was that he shouldn’t have left in the first place. He should’ve faced the demons of his memories, taken them in, and let them go instead of running away. And it wasn’t like back during the Blight, when he’d get frustrated or overwhelmed and just walk away from the campfire and into the woods for a while to either calm down or get caught in a fire trap. That was a few minutes to an hour or two away from everyone. This time, he’d gone far beyond that, spending upwards of two months away from his responsibilities. And while he’d been away, hiding his head in the sand, his home had been attacked again. Because of his running, he hadn’t been there to protect it. To protect his people. To protect his family. Plus, he was still quite far away and couldn’t imagine being able to get back to Highever in less than three weeks. Especially if he somehow had to get out of Weisshaupt without having permission. This place was, after all, a fortress, and could easily keep a person in when they didn’t want said person to be out.

Georg held Malcolm’s gaze for a moment before heaving a sigh that distinctly reminded Malcolm of Duncan and Riordan. “I think Duncan purposefully sought out recruits like you,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else in the room. Then he directly addressed the young Warden, saying, “No need to be confrontational. I’m sending both you and Líadan back to Ferelden very soon. Not as soon as you’d like, I fear, but soon enough.”

“Not as soon as I’d like?” Malcolm repeated, starting to try to figure out escape routes through the fortress should it come to that. Not that he had any real mental map of the place. Not one at all, actually. 

“You won’t be leaving for at least three days. We need time to put together a plan of action for Ferelden in general, given the Thaw, Morrigan, and especially given this latest news.”

Líadan leaned forward in her chair. “What _is_ the latest news?”

The First Warden picked a piece of paper off his desk and sat back. Though he held the paper in front of him, his eyes never went to it. “As you already know, Highever was attacked by darkspawn. This confirmed attack followed a few weeks of rumored darkspawn movement on the northern coast of Ferelden.” He put the piece of paper, which Malcolm assumed was the message in question, aside and studied a map that was spread out on his desktop. “Sightings, and possibly attacks, occurred in the Wending Wood, Amaranthine, Knotwood Hills, along the North Road, and possibly the outskirts of West Hill. But the only attack Riordan was able to get confirmation on was the one on Highever, which took place three weeks ago. The attack was on both the castle and the city.”

“A two-pronged attack? When it isn’t a Blight?” Marius said, alarm making his voice tense. “Then the answer is clear. Urthemiel is not dead.”

Astrid glared coldly at Malcolm. “The archdemon is leading the darkspawn. They never use strategy otherwise.”

“If that were true, we’d be dreaming about the archdemon,” Malcolm said, impassive under the Second Warden’s glare. Except his impassivity was entirely a front. Inside, he was afraid that what Marius said was true, that Urthemiel was still alive and the Blight had never truly ended. Maker, the Blight was still ravaging Ferelden and here he was, a thousand miles away, where he couldn’t do anyone any good at all.

“Then the dreams simply haven’t caught up to us yet.” Marius sat up straighter in his chair. “It isn’t an exact science.”

“You Fereldan Wardens never ended the Blight.” Astrid practically threw the words at Malcolm and Líadan. “You made the same mistake they did back in the First—”

Georg held up a hand. “Wardens. No need to get ahead of ourselves. I’m not entirely sure that it’s an archdemon behind these attacks, even though the darkspawn are still employing actual strategy and tactics. Teyrn Fergus reported to Riordan that one of the darkspawn that attacked the castle attempted to talk to him.”

Every other person in the First Warden’s study stopped breathing. Malcolm had no idea why the others did, but he did because he was starting to think this was all some horrible joke. “Talking darkspawn? Seriously? Fergus said there were talking darkspawn? I think we must’ve missed a head injury or something when he came out of the Wilds. Maybe the Chasind did something to his mind, because he _must_ be imagining things. If talking darkspawn existed, I think we would’ve heard them in the past year. Especially considering there were upwards of a hundred thousand that tried to sack Denerim. Is this some kind of joke? Are you guys trying to pull something over on the new kids? Is that it?” He stood up, not intending to stick around to provide these Weisshaupt people with any more amusement. “Not falling for it. And it isn’t funny in the least.” Then he went for the door.

“It’s not a joke,” Fiona said softly from her corner. “I wish it was, but it isn’t.”

Malcolm stopped and turned to face her. Immediately, he could see that out of any of the Wardens in the room, including himself and Líadan, Fiona was the most shaken. Fear had widened her dark eyes and paled her already fair skin. “What do you mean?” he asked, the harshness that’d been in his voice just seconds before having disappeared. 

Fiona glanced over at the First Warden, as if asking for permission to continue. Georg wordlessly motioned for Malcolm to sit down again. Once young Warden was seated, Georg inclined his head toward the mage in the corner. 

She nodded, and then said, “Grey Wardens have encountered talking darkspawn before. Just one, but that makes a precedent for this encounter.” Then she frowned and looked away from Malcolm and back at the First Warden. “Was this one the same as what my party encountered in the Deep Roads or was it a different one?”

“From the description, it was a different one. A hurlock, like the other, but not an emissary. Also, they killed it, so it couldn’t be questioned,” Georg answered, consulting the message.

“What questions would you even ask a darkspawn?” Malcolm mused out loud.

Líadan snorted. “I can think of one.”

Malcolm leaned back to look at her. “‘How would you like to die?’ is not a valid question in this case.”

She held up her hands. “All out of questions, then.”

He tapped an idle finger on his chin, the roughness of the stubble reminding him that he hadn’t bothered to shave that morning. “I suppose we could ask it ‘why?’ but that would be incredibly open-ended. You get all sorts of responses from humans and elves and dwarves when you ask them that. A lot of the time, they—”

“Be _quiet_ ,” Astrid said. “Must you always babble?”

“I don’t babble.”

“I hate to agree with her,” Líadan said, motioning toward the Second Warden, “but you do tend to babble when you’re nervous. And you’ve been nervous ever since that messenger first told you what was happening.”

Malcolm scowled and drew his eyes away from Astrid and toward Georg. He passed over Fiona on the way, and took note that she was giving him a very curious look. Then he wondered if his father babbled had in the same way, because as much as he was loathe to admit it, Líadan was right. And he only knew it to be completely true because Alistair did the same thing. As Fiona had yet to string much more than a few sentences together at the same time while he was present, if babbling was genetic, they certainly didn’t get it from her. Then he remembered something she’d said just before he’d interrupted the conversation with, well, his babbling. His eyes went right back to his natural mother. “Wait a minute. _Your_ party?”

Fiona cast another look at the First Warden. “Tell him everything,” Georg replied. 

The elf went to start her story when the doors opened again, admitting Hildur. “What’d I miss?” the dwarf asked brightly. 

“Actually, I think you made it just in time for the good part,” Líadan answered. 

Hildur grinned at the young elf and plopped into a seat near her. “Then, by all means, don’t let me interrupt.”

“You already know this story,” Fiona said to the dwarf. Then she told her tale about an expedition to the Deep Roads that had taken place over twenty years before. 

Malcolm felt oddly uncomfortable throughout the story, realizing that this was when his mother had met his father. He also realized the the important part was this talking, intelligent darkspawn called the Architect, and not the esoteric nature of his parentage, but one was far less distressing than the other. Especially when learning that this Architect had not only duped three veteran Grey Wardens, but was also very _not dead_. When Fiona finally ended her story at the part where Loghain showed up and rescued Maric and everyone else but then everyone got distracted and the Architect and this Utha person escaped, Malcolm asked, “So the Grey Wardens know where the Old Gods are?”

“I do,” said Georg, who then pointed at the Second Warden. “And so does she.”

“Except we don’t know where Urthemiel is,” Astrid said.

Malcolm sighed. “Can’t you just let that go fo—”

The Anders woman shot to her feet. “No, I can’t just let that go! There’s the soul of an _Old God_ roaming about on the surface of Thedas thanks to your irresponsibility. And if you think that issue should be ‘let go,’ then you are far more irresponsible than I first thought.”

“ _For now_ ,” Malcolm finished, his jaw flexing with anger. “I was simply trying to say that we should stick to one issue at a time. You know, separating talking darkspawn from raging archdemon so our minds won’t melt at the idea of mixing the two concepts.”

“I was going to suggest the same myself,” Marius said. “Not that the situation with Urthemiel isn’t alarming, but this resurgence of the Architect is also quite alarming in its own right. However, the two situations might be connected in ways we haven’t thought—”

“The Architect woke up Urthemiel,” Fiona said suddenly, as if she’d just carried on an entire train of thought in her head and had just blurted out her conclusion, interrupting her fellow Senior Warden. “He got the locations of the Old Gods from Bregan. And his foolish plan was to try to locate and kill the Old Gods before they could be tainted and turned into archdemons. It was doomed to fail from the start, because as soon as the darkspawn find the Old God, they corrupt it. Even if the Architect doesn’t hear the Call, he’s still tainted. He’s still a darkspawn. And I think this particular darkspawn started the Fifth Blight.”

Malcolm looked back and forth between Fiona and Marius. Fiona’s face had slowly gotten more horrified with each word she’d spoken, while Marius had gotten an almost calculating look to his. And now the Tevinter man’s attention had drifted to within, his eyes oriented toward the tapestry behind the First Warden, but not seeing it. The same feeling that had taken hold of Malcolm the day before took hold of him again, where his fingertips went numb, and the depths of his soul became frozen. Now they would speak of Morrigan’s death again and he would have to accept it. And if they chose to give him a role in that death, he would have to do it, because Astrid was right. He’d been irresponsible, even as he tried to protest that he hadn’t been. If this Architect was seeking out the Old Gods to try to kill them, and he somehow knew that Urthemiel hadn’t died in the Battle of Denerim, then he would go after the Old God again. Did this darkspawn emissary know of Morrigan’s ritual? Did he know about him and Morrigan, was that why he’d attacked Highever, thinking the mage would have been there? Or perhaps it was something older, something to do with Highever in general, as that’s where Flemeth had been. Where her origin was, anyway, those earliest tales that mentioned her. Always, always it came back to Highever. “He’s going to try to find Morrigan,” Malcolm said. 

“Perhaps,” said Marius. “But that’s assuming quite a bit. That he knows about her ritual, for one.”

Fiona sighed. “We need to find Morrigan. I don’t know if it’s more important to find her or the Architect, or if by looking for one we’ll somehow end up finding the other, but that woman needs to be found.”

“We need to kill Morrigan is what we need to do,” said Astrid.

Georg pinched the bridge of his nose. “If it comes to that.” At Astrid’s shocked look, he went on to say, “If we’re going to be truly honest with ourselves, the ritual might not even have happened. Yes, we all know what it looks like—that Riordan took the final blow and lived to tell the tale. However, Zevran did inflict severe damage on the archdemon, possibly enough that it was a mortal wound that didn’t lead to instantaneous death, but death minutes later. What I’m saying is that we need to act pragmatically, _not_ rashly. There is a chance this woman could be innocent. We are not butchers.”

“Some of us aren’t, anyway,” Líadan said, casting an accusatory look at Astrid.

The Second Warden ignored her, keeping her deadly focus on Georg. “Even if it turns out she did not do her ritual, she still _knows_ of the ritual. And she still knows Grey Warden secrets. If she is truly the daughter of Flemeth then she most likely knows how to stay alive for a very long time. As in, she could very well be alive for the next Blight, especially if this Architect manages to wake up and corrupt another Old God. Innocent of keeping the soul of an Old God alive or not, this maleficar must die.”

Malcolm’s head snapped up. “She’s not a maleficar.”

“She wanted the soul of an Old God!”

“Doesn’t matter. She’s not a maleficar.” He refused to believe he’d been so wrong. That he’d fallen in love with a maleficar. An accursed one. What Morrigan had done, had it been turning her magic against them? Taking the power of an Old God for her own in producing that child, was that in of itself bad enough to be named maleficar? Or did it depend on what she did with the child? Why had she so desperately wanted the child? If what he knew about her was true—though he was truly beginning to question if he’d known her at all—she believed in power. Craved power, in fact, as long as it came from within herself and not from others and didn’t drain her own life. The Chantry called blood mages maleficar, that was their definition, not quite matching up with the Chant of Light’s version. Morrigan was no blood mage, he knew that much. But, by the very lines of the Chant, she could be a maleficar. What she had done with her magic could very well turn out very badly for the Maker’s children. “She’s not,” he said, but his voice was not as strong, showing the loss of his conviction.

“What is a maleficar?” Líadan asked. When the rest of the group gave her quizzical looks for not knowing such a simple definition, she explained, “I’m Dalish, remember? I don’t know a single line of your Chantry’s Chant of Light. Well, I mean, there was the verse that was recited at Leliana’s funeral, but I don’t recall it saying anything about maleficar.”

“A blood mage,” Astrid said. “A maleficar is a blood mage.”

Malcolm returned his gaze to the Second Warden. “She’s not a blood mage.”

Then Marius recited the lines from the Chant that defined what maleficar was to Andraste and the Maker: “Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond.”

Líadan pondered the verse for a moment, resting her chin on her fist that was propped up on the arm of the chair. “So... even if she isn’t a blood mage, by that definition, Morrigan is a maleficar.”

“She’s _not_ ,” Malcolm said, facing Líadan. “You were her friend. How can you say that?”

The elf’s green eyes grew large in surprise at Malcolm’s words. “How could I _not_ say that, you mean? She was my friend. She was _everyone’_ sfriend and _your_ lover. And look what she did to you, to everyone. And she did that with her magic. I might not be as well-schooled in this Chant stuff as the rest of you, but it sounds like she turned her Creator-given gift against the rest of us. I don’t know what ends she wants it for, though I’m sure it can’t be anything good, but she wanted that Old God child, and she did whatever it took to get it. And in the end, with whatever that ritual was, she used magic to get it. She used you and used everyone, manipulated and twisted us to get what she wanted. And what she wanted is going to get everyone killed in the end.” Her tone became softer and her eyes took on a hint of sorrow. “I’m sorry, Malcolm. But you have to name her for what she is, even if it hurts.”

He went to deny it another time, but found he couldn’t say the words. And it hurt. Maker, did it hurt. A ragged, rusted sawtooth sword slowly driven through his chest kind of hurt. He looked down at his clenched hands and closed his eyes against it. No one else said anything. Líadan, of all the people present, had said enough.

After a moment, when Malcolm kept silent, Georg cleared his throat and said, “There were also some other reports that came in. One of them mentioned that a woman matching Morrigan’s description was spotted traveling west through the Frostbacks, possibly with child. However, a second report said that a woman of her description was seen traveling north through the Vimmark Mountains, while a third told of the same woman disembarking from a ship in Cumberland. Vague leads at best, I believe. However, it’s what we have. They could all be false or they could all even be Morrigan.”

“She’s a fairly hard woman to mistake for another,” said Líadan. “I mean, she’s very uniquely striking in her looks. If you meet her, or even just see her, you don’t forget her.”

From Georg’s desk, Malcolm heard the rustle of papers being moved. “We’ll need to get search parties out looking for her as soon as possible. At least three, heading to the destinations where she was last seen.”

A creak of leather as Líadan shifted in her chair. “She is very powerful. _Very_ powerful. Wynne said that Morrigan was the most powerful mage she’d ever encountered or even heard of, aside from Flemeth. Which, given who Morrigan’s mother was, isn’t surprising. But that makes her incredibly dangerous. She can shapeshift, too. So one second she’s there, and another, she’s not. Vanished into the trees as whatever animal she chooses. Anyone who encounters her with the intent to harm at the outset would be in a great deal of danger.”

The First Warden sighed. “For once, I wish we had more templars in the order, or at least more warriors with templar abilities.”

Malcolm knew that was his cue to open his eyes, acknowledge what Georg had said, and volunteer his services. But he didn’t do any of those. Instead, for the first time in a long time, he wished he was back in Highever, that he would open his eyes and be truly home, and none of this would have ever happened. Not the Blight, not Howe’s betrayal, not even meeting or knowing Morrigan. If he had never known her, all of this wouldn’t have happened. And it wouldn’t hurt so much.

“We didn’t have very long to go over the requisite skills in training this morning,” said Marius. 

“We could tell the Chantry about this apostate and they could send their templars after her as well,” Astrid proposed. 

Malcolm opened his eyes. “That would be unwise.”

Astrid raised an imperious brow. “Why? Because they would catch her?”

“No. Because you would be sending men and women into certain death. Morrigan and her mother had killed templars for sport since Morrigan was a small child. Templars with only Chantry training trying to capture or even kill Morrigan would only be walking to their own deaths. They would also be praying that their deaths would be quick and painless, which I doubt they would be. Morrigan hates templars, more than any mage I’ve ever known. The only reason she tolerated my brother was because he never took his vows and was a Grey Warden.” He didn’t add the extra detail that perhaps the only reason she tolerated Alistair was because it was an act that she tolerated _any_ of them. 

When Astrid didn’t follow up with a question, Marius asked, “Then what do you propose? Will you consent to finishing the skill training before you depart? Or will you decline because you don’t want anything you taught to be used against this woman?”

He wanted to squirm under the scrutiny and he forced himself to remain absolutely still. Marius was right, he didn’t want to teach anyone anything that could be used against Morrigan, to kill Morrigan. But he knew that she had to be dealt with, that she and her Old God child were a danger to all of Thedas, and he had a responsibility to curb that danger. “I’ll finish the training.” Something twinged in his chest and he did his best to ignore it. Yes, he was certainly living to truly regret it in the end. Morrigan had been quite painfully correct in her prediction of his future. Malcolm looked from Marius to Georg. “I take it that I won’t be allowed to search for Morrigan?”

The First Warden instantly replied, “Absolutely not. You’re far too close to the situation and would be the person most easily manipulated by this woman.”

Ow. Malcolm was starting to think that he’d rather have taken a serious beating from the biggest warrior they had in this fortress over staying here and continuing to be repeatedly stabbed with acid-ridden emotions. At this point, even a fire-breathing high dragon was beginning to look pleasant. In fact, jumping into the fireplace rather than sitting here and taking this abuse was appealing. “I understand,” he said, trying to keep his tone level and failing. He couldn’t even look any of them in the eye. 

Georg studied Malcolm for a moment, and then looked down and scribbled a few things on one of the papers in front of them. Then he indicated to Marius and handed him the paper he’d written on. “I want you to find these people and have them ready to start heavy training in templar abilities this afternoon.” Marius gave a curt nod, took the paper, and left the room. The First Warden wrote on another paper and handed that one to Hildur, giving her the same instructions he’d given the other Senior Warden. Then he glanced at Malcolm. “Would her people be able to learn templar skills?”

“Some,” said Malcolm, sounding hollow, already emotionally distancing himself from the task he had later that day. “It really has a lot to do with your ability to focus. Worth a shot, anyway, I guess.”

The dwarf gave him a strangely concerned look, nodded once, and departed. 

The First Warden dropped his quill, sighed, and sat back. “I’m sending you back to Ferelden.”

“You said that already. I believe right after I _told_ you I was going back to Ferelden,” Malcolm automatically replied, sounding more harsh than he’d meant to, and wondering where the anger came from. He wasn’t mad at the First Warden, at least that he was consciously aware. 

Georg seemed nonplussed. “Líadan is going with you, of course. But with this emerging threat of the Architect, I’m going to have Fiona go back with the both of you as well.”

Fiona immediately started protesting. “Georg, I hardly think that—”

“You’re the only one left alive who is still with the Grey Wardens who has encountered the Architect before. That, plus all your research, makes you the authority on him. We need you in Ferelden where this is happening, where your knowledge can be of use sooner rather than later.” Then he smiled warmly at her. “I didn’t realize you were so fond of Weisshaupt that you didn’t want to leave.”

In reply, the elf crossed her arms and stared hard at the First Warden. However, she didn’t voice another objection, acquiescing with her silence.

“Good,” said Georg, standing up. “Now, I don’t know about the rest of you, but it’s noon and I’m starving. Let’s have us some lunch.”

Malcolm gaped at him and his ease of changing the subject, while Líadan looked as if she’d protest before her stomach growled loudly and betrayed her true feelings. She rolled her eyes, stood, and led the rest of them out the door.

The rest of the day passed in a rush after the meal, and the training didn’t stop until well past dark. Malcolm felt driven. If he had to teach these people, he would teach them as well and as fast as he could, because he needed to get back to Highever even faster. Sleep hit him hard that night, and while it didn’t contain nightmares of the archdemon, the darkspawn dreams were back, robbing him of his needed restful slumber. Eventually, he gave up, dressed, and went for a walk on the grounds. He passed through the portcullis, heading towards the aeries. It wasn’t yet dawn, but it wasn’t night any longer, either. The twilight of the in-between time cast everything in an odd hue, dim but not dark, visible, but not in great detail. As grey a light as the Wardens themselves, he figured. The frigid air pulled his breath from his lungs in a white mist that puffed from his mouth, his cheeks burned at the whipping wind once he reached the top of the cliffside path. Wrapping his cloak against him and tucking his chin into his chest, he descended despite the weather.

By the time he reached the first aerie, he could barely feel his face. Not wanting to get frostbite, he hopped up and inside the ancient cave that had one held a griffon nest. He sat at the opening, the rock wall to his side blocking the worst of the wind, his feet dangling off the edge. A pebble, jarred loose from his climbing, pinged downward along the cliffside, and then passed far out of sight before it hit the bottom. Malcolm made a mental note to be really, really careful. A fall like that would result in a particularly unpleasant death, something way too much like Zevran had suffered, but entirely without an archdemon, and entirely _with_ the needed stupidity.

They were to resume training right after breakfast. No longer did he feel guilty about it, though. Instead, it felt right. He needed to train these people so that they could stop Morrigan, to do what he hadn’t been able to in the first place. It was a penance, really, for not being responsible enough at the outset. He had allowed himself to be manipulated, to be made to think that he loved her, and that she loved him, and now he would pay for it. Just as he would pay for running away when he got back to Highever and discovered whatever damage the darkspawn had done in his absence.

Footsteps sounded on the path and his eyes moved toward the sound. He squinted in the strange light and saw a slim shape appear in the morning mist. The set of the person’s body seemed familiar, but he couldn’t be entirely sure of who it was. Slowly, the shape solidified until he could make out the auburn hair and the pointed ears of his elven friend.

“I can hear you breathing,” Líadan said, coming to a halt just below where he sat. “And if you aren’t Malcolm, I’m going to feel really stupid. Just so you know.”

“Up here,” he said. 

She jumped a little and looked up. “Oh.” Then she frowned. “I’m too...”

He offered a hand, unable to keep the slight grin from his face. “A hand up?”

The elf scowled but did take the hand and climbed up the short cliff face to sit next to him. “I take it you had bad dreams, too?”

“No archdemon, though,” he said, returning his gaze to the space between the cliffs. 

“True.” The silence to fall between them, a fog like the one in shifting in the valley below. Then, “I’m sorry for what I said yesterday. Well, not what I said. But that I had to say it.”

“That’s... a strange apology.” He didn’t mention that he hadn’t expected an apology at all. In fact, he’d expected either more guilt heaped on him, or a reversion back to the normal teasing she did. Certainly nothing of the nature of an apology. 

She shrugged. “Not going to lie, I suck at apologies. But, there you go.”

He decided to capitalize on her honesty, even if the answer confused him more, or ended up killing him somehow because she would be offended at the question. “Answer something for me.”

“Okay. You get one question.”

“Why did you volunteer to follow me?”

Líadan sighed heavily. “You _would_ ask one of the hardest questions imaginable.”

“So you aren’t going to answer?” Well, at least he’d tried and she hadn’t murdered him for merely asking. That was getting somewhere. Maybe.

She scooped up a few small rocks and started tossing them over the side of the cliff. “No, I will. See, I know why you came here. You were running away. And don’t try to deny it, because it takes a runner to know one. That’s why I volunteered to be the one to chase you down. See, the Wardens were all helping the Dalish with finishing clearing the darkspawn out of the Brecilian Forest. Alistair had permanently granted the land to the Dalish for their help with the Blight.” Suddenly, she gave a derisive laugh. “Listen to me! ‘Their’ help and not ‘our.’ That’s how bad it is, you see. I’m Dalish, they’re Dalish, but I can’t return to my clan, so, I’m not really Dalish anymore, exactly. And the clan that used to be mine was the clan that was in charge of everything. I kept having to see them every day and I... I just couldn’t take it. Then Riordan got the message from Fergus, and I pretty much leapt at the chance to go. He told me he was going to assign me to catch up with you anyway, because apparently I’m that much of a torture to be with that you’d return to Ferelden out of desperation. But, I’d already volunteered, one refugee chasing another.” The sun rose over the horizon and its first weak rays became a warm golden light on the aeries. Líadan flipped two pebbles in quick succession off the edge. They clattered against the cliff and each other a few times before dropping out of sight like the others, their shadows dancing on the grey rock behind them as they fell. “Except with how we’re so tied to what we’re trying to escape, it’s like we’re running from our own shadows. And you can’t run away from that, because no matter how far you go, it’s right behind you.”  

He went to make a point about shadows disappearing at night, but she threw another pebble and hit him in the chest before he could get a word out.

“And don’t start talking about how ‘shadows aren’t around in the clouds’ or ‘shadows aren’t around at night’ because I _know_ that and you just want to ruin my metaphor instead of actually thinking about what I just said.” A rueful smile played lightly on her lips. “Because that’s I would do. Easier that way. Which is kind of why I said what I said to you yesterday.” The smile fell away as quickly as another pebble plummeted down the side of the cliff. “The thing is, after what she did to you, you should be _mad_. Furious, even. And you’re not. Someone mentions her and you get all... looking like...”

Malcolm looked away from the forest below them and toward his friend. “Like what?”

“Like a kitten someone punched because they heard Isolde’s voice one too many times.”

Laughter bubbled out of him despite his melancholy. “That’s... really pitiful, actually.”

“Quite so.”

“Hardly befitting a warrior of my stature.”

“Warrior of your stature? I wouldn’t go that far.”

His smile faded as he truly considered her words. She was right. Already, he’d started to change, and he recognized that the reason he’d been so driven yesterday afternoon was because he was angry at Morrigan. That the reason he’d snapped at the First Warden wasn’t anger at Georg, but misplaced anger at Morrigan. His hands reached under his armor and drew out the leather thong from around his neck. Then he untied it and removed Morrigan’s ring in order to fling it after those rocks they’d been tossing off the cliff. 

“What’s that?” Líadan asked when the silver reflected the soft sunlight.

“A ring Morrigan gave me,” he explained, surprised at strange combination of fury and pain riding at the edge of his voice. “It allows her to know where I am. To track me. She gave it to me after I’d wandered off from camp yet again. Said she didn’t want to lose me, or...” he trailed off, straining to remember exactly what she’d said. “It would enable her to find me, wherever I went. Flemeth had given it to her so that Flemeth could find _her_ that way. Morrigan changed its abilities to tune it to me. Or so she said.” He picked the ring up between his index finger and thumb, contemplating it. “But, it’s stupidly sentimental to keep it and it just makes everything hurt more. And, besides, _she_ said it wasn’t given out of sentiment. I didn’t believe her at the time, but I guess I should have. More fool me, I suppose. Ha, she once said that, too.” 

He’d barely started the motion to flick the ring out into the air when Líadan grabbed his arm. “No, don’t throw it away.”

Malcolm slowly looked at Líadan’s hand on his wrist, and then curiously at the elf’s determined face. “Why not?”

“Because,” she said, plucking the ring from between his fingers with her other hand, opening his hand, and placing the ring back in it before closing his fingers over it, “if Morrigan could change its powers, then maybe another mage could change it back, and it could be used to track Morrigan once again.”

He opened his hand and looked at the ring in an entirely different way—as a tool. “That. Is. Brilliant.” He slung the ring back on the leather thong, tied that, and slipped it back over his head. Then he leapt down from the aerie and looked up, smiling, at Líadan, who still sat up in the old nest, giving him a puzzled look. “Come on,” he said. “Just jump, I’ll catch you. We need to go see Fiona.”

She bit her lip, looking uneasy.

“I promise I won’t drop you. Let’s go, we haven’t got all day.”

Then she sighed and dropped down. He caught her easily, surprised at how light she was. Feeling somewhat brighter at the prospect of having a way to track down Morrigan, he spun Líadan around once before depositing her on her feet. He quickly dropped his arms from around her, and then grabbed her hand to make her run faster up the cliffside path. The sun was at their backs as they ran, and their shadows led the way. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

“The legend says that before the fall of Arlathan, the gods we know and revere fought an endless war with others of their kind. There is not a hahren among us who remembers these others: only in dreams do we hear whispered the names of Geldauran and Daern’thal and Anaris, for they are the Forgotten Ones, the gods of terror and malice, spite and pestilence. In ancient times, only Fen’Harel could walk without fear among both our gods and the Forgotten Ones, for although he is kin to the gods of the People, the Forgotten Ones knew of his cunning ways and saw him as one of their own.

And that is how Fen’Harel tricked them. Our gods saw him as a brother, and they trusted him when he said that they must keep to the heavens while he arranged a truce. And the Forgotten Ones trusted him also when he said he would arrange for a the defeat of our gods, if only the Forgotten Ones would returned to the abyss for a time. They trusted Fen’Harel, and they were all of them betrayed. And Fen’Harel sealed them away so they could never again walk among the People.”

—from _The Tale of Fen’Harel’s Triumph,_ as told by Gisharel, keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish

**Malcolm**

He was doing his level best to remain still as Fiona continued her study of Morrigan’s ring. She’d been at it for two days and he kept stopping by her work area whenever he wasn’t training warriors in templar skills. Líadan usually came with him, or was already working with the other elf, and for the most part, Malcolm was able to put the fact out of his mind that Fiona also happened to be his mother. Of course, as he was growing incredibly impatient with the lack of results—actually, more like lack of news of any kind, good or bad, with the ring—he was getting really bad at not fidgeting when he was there. But he had nothing else better to do, other than go to Highever, but they were supposedly scheduled to leave the next morning, so going now would be silly. 

Currently, Fiona was holding her hand over the ring and mumbling some sort of incantation, and he could see the faint glow of a purple kind of magic forming an aura around her. And he was sitting on a bench on a far wall, hand tapping away at the worn wood. Fiona stopped her incantation and glanced over at Líadan. The younger elf blinked then quickly nodded before walking over to sit next to Malcolm. As soon as she took her seat, her hand slapped down onto his and pinned it to the bench.

_Oh, right_ , he thought. _I’m being annoying._ So he nodded like he understood and expected her to go back and help Fiona again, but she remained seated and merely observed the other mage, both her hands now back in her lap. Malcolm held still for a few minutes as he also watched, but then quickly grew bored when he realized that the aura wasn’t going to get bigger or explode or do something equally as awesome, and his foot started bouncing.

Líadan clamped her hand on his knee. “Knock it off,” she hissed, “or go somewhere else before Fiona kills you.”

“Sorry,” he whispered back, and stilled his leg. 

“You _will_ be if you keep it up.” Then she slowly took her hand back as if she either figured he’d just start right up again with the fidgeting or had liked the connection between the two of them. He decided it was because she didn’t believe he was done fidgeting. Which, in all honesty, he probably wasn’t. His mother—well, Eleanor Cousland, the mother who had raised him—had always said he was restless from the moment he’d been born. 

After a few moments, he leaned closer to Líadan and asked, “Did you manage to learn any healing at all?”

“Why, planning on getting yourself set on fire?”

“I’ll have you know, I never _plan_ on getting myself set on fire. It just sort of happens. I mean, seriously, there I am, minding my own business, when there’s a trap that sets my arms on fire, or some high dragon spewing fire at me, or a rage demon’s corpse bursting into flame under my feet—”

He stopped short when the book open on the table in front of Fiona snapped shut. Slowly, he looked over from Líadan to where Fiona stood to find the Senior Warden glaring at him with her unsettlingly familiar eyes. “You are not helping,” she said slowly.

Malcolm found himself sitting up straighter. “I’ll behave!”

Líadan snorted.

Fiona shifted her glare from Malcolm to the younger elf. “And you are not much better.”

“Where have I heard that before?” Malcolm wondered out loud, entirely forgetting the promise he had just made. “I know Riordan has said it plenty of times. Has anyone else? Oh, Eamon, quite a bit. Probably Alistair once or twice, but you’re as mean to him as you are to me, so that’s understandable.”

Líadan elbowed him in the ribs, hard. “Shut up. You just promised that you would shut up, and here you are, babbling away. And you said you didn’t babble, you big liar.”

He wanted to deny it again, but he had just said he’d be quiet, so he said nothing, merely glared down at her. She smirked, and then went back to watching Fiona, who had re-opened the tome on the table and was back to her incanting. Malcolm ferreted out a book from a shelf behind him and started flipping through the pages. After a few minutes of happily browsing, and apparently too much page-fluttering, the book on the table shut again with a louder snap than before. The sound made him jump and he dropped the book he was holding, where it landed on the granite floor with a loud smack. Already feeling Fiona’s glare boring into the back of his head, he slowly reached down and guiltily lifted the book up from the ground. Without looking over at the annoyed mage, he carefully slid the book back into its place on the shelf behind the bench. Then he started a very intense study of his boots, because Fiona officially had a worse death glare than Duncan had ever had, and he was fairly certain that if he tried to meet her look, he’d end up incinerated on the spot.

A heavy, resigned sigh came from Fiona. “I don’t think I’ll get any further with this ring today. Líadan, since Malcolm brought it up, did you want to try another healing lesson? I think you almost healed a pinprick last time we tried.”

“Hey, you’re making progress, then, since you didn’t make it worse,” Malcolm said to Líadan before he remembered he wasn’t supposed to say anything.

“Ha. Ha.” She stood up and started walking toward Fiona, and then spun on her heel to address Malcolm again. “So, while I remember, I made this promise to myself that I would do this... thing... before we left Weisshaupt.”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “This sounds bad. Like, do what? Learn how to use a two-handed sword? Learn to dance the Remigold? Learn to keep a straight-face like an Anders? Discover the pleasure of bashing people in the face with a shield? Make a griffon out of your bellybutton lint?”

“That is disgusting,” Líadan said with a grimace.

He shrugged in acknowledgement of her point. “Okay, yeah, that last one was kind of gross.”

“I believe the dog is better behaved than the two of you put together,” said Fiona.

Malcolm clutched at his chest as if he’d been stabbed. “Oh, _ouch_.” Not that the woman didn’t have a fair point. Gunnar was often more well-behaved than he was. The Landsmeet was clear evidence of that fact. The mabari hadn’t barked the entire time. Malcolm, on the other hand, had said entirely too much.

“Anyway,” said Líadan, “seeing as that we’re supposed to leave tomorrow, I figure this is as good a chance as any.” 

“...for?” Malcolm didn’t like the suspense at all. Not to mention that he really couldn’t even begin to imagine what Líadan was going to do. She was entirely unpredictable like that. He knew she was his friend, how she’d defended him from the other Wardens and kept him from getting lost within the confines of the fortress showed him that, but he really couldn’t figure out if she loved him or hated him. Her words in the First Warden’s study a few days before had cut deeply, but then she’d randomly apologized for them the next day, purposefully seeking him out to do so. She’d even been nice enough to protect him from the wicked clutches of Princess Ilsa without too much teasing afterward. But, standing in this room with her and Fiona, he had no idea if he should be afraid or not. Maybe he should even run, but he had a feeling Líadan could run faster than him. She was nimble like that and she wasn’t wearing heavy chainmail like he was. 

Líadan studied Malcolm for a moment, and then pointed at him. “Malcolm,” she said, and then pointed at Fiona, “she’s your mother.” Then she did the same to Fiona, pointing at her then Malcolm. “Fiona, he’s your son. So now that that’s settled and out there, you two can actually talk about it instead of dancing around the whole issue because, honestly, it’s driving me up a wall. I don’t know how you guys can take the tension, but I couldn’t deal with it anymore. And it certainly isn’t helping matters for either of you with all this stuff that’s going to be happening soon in Ferelden. So... there you go.”

Malcolm blinked and realized that he should’ve bolted when he’d first thought of it. Both he and Fiona stared at each other, eyes wide in shock, neither of them knowing what to say. He was seeing her in a new way, he supposed, with the words of “she’s your mother” actually having been said with her in the same room as him. Because, really, he was trying to figure out just how he, as tall as he was, had come from this tiny woman. But that wasn’t anything he could say out loud. And neither of them wanted to look away from the other, because then it would seem like they were being dismissive. “This is really awkward,” he finally said after a few more minutes of acutely uncomfortable silence. “And I’ve been in more awkward situations than I can count. And that’s a lot. I can count pretty high. This might be second only to the whole ‘Riordan being alive when he should be dead’ moment on the top of Fort Drakon.” He paused to see if his attempt at humor had done the trick as it sometimes did. But the itchy quiet continued, and the memory of Alistair shouting, ‘You should be dead!’ seemed proper instead of strange, and, right then, strangely preferable. “Wait, no, I think this moment just topped that one. Yes, yes it did.”

The door opened behind them and they all turned to look, Malcolm and Fiona wearing identical looks of hope at possible relief from the awkwardness, and Líadan looking more than annoyed that someone would dare disturb her intervention. Hildur strolled in, looked between the three of them, and asked, “Did I interrupt something?”

“No!” Malcolm and Fiona both practically shouted at the same time.

“Oh, Creators take you both,” Líadan said. 

Hildur shot them all a puzzled look, and then gave a small shrug of acceptance. “Okay, then. So I wanted to talk to you guys about tonight...”

Fiona collected the ring and the book from the top of the table, tucked them under her arm, and walked out of the room without another word. Líadan frowned as she watched her fellow Warden leave, a twinge of worry passing through her eyes. Malcolm kept his gaze in the direction where his mother had gone, but felt only unsettled, because he had no idea what else to feel. Hildur, on the other hand, didn’t seem bothered. When the dwarf realized that neither of the younger Wardens were as unbothered as her, she said, “Fiona is like that, you know. If she gets overly frustrated or emotional or, well, pretty much whenever set off balance, she’ll just up and leave without saying a word. Eventually she’ll let it out, usually when you least suspect it. More than once I’ve forgotten having made her mad, and then had her randomly yell at me days later.”

Líadan shot Malcolm a knowing look, informing him that he tended to do the exact same thing. “Shut up,” he said in answer to her silent accusation.

Hildur glanced from Líadan to Malcolm, and then laughed. “Oh, that’s right, Fiona’s your mother. I forgot about that. You haven’t talked about it, then? Let me guess, I interrupted a chat about it when I came in, didn’t I? That’s why you and Fiona looked so relieved that I appeared, while Líadan here looked like she wanted to rip my head off.” She turned to the elf. “Don’t be so mad. Nothing would’ve happened anyway. Fiona would’ve walked out like that regardless. You guys will be traveling with her to Ferelden soon, so I’m sure it’ll all come out on the road.”

“Does everyone know?” Malcolm asked. 

“What? Oh, no. Just the First Warden, Second Warden, and the three most senior Wardens, so that’d be me, Marius, and, well, Fiona, but that much was obvious in the first place. You know, considering all the... discussions... that’ve been going on with you guys and us and everyone in Georg’s office, I’m surprised Astrid hasn’t brought it up whenever Fiona said anything that remotely sounded like she was defending you.”

“She _did_ defend him,” said Líadan. “A few times, actually.”

“Well, to be honest, had Fiona not spoken up the times when she did, I would have. Astrid can be a bit of an arse, as I’m sure you both know. I mean, in the end, the woman is a good warrior and a very good Warden, but I swear sometimes it’s like she hasn’t a heart at all. Honestly, Malcolm, I’m impressed at the restraint you’ve shown in not telling her off. Well, not that you didn’t come close and Georg interrupted you, but still.”

“Yes, I did _not_ tell the Second Warden to go soak her head. Go me.” Malcolm didn’t add that spending time with Isolde during the Blight had provided him with plenty of practice in matters of restraint when considering the use of violence on annoying people. And the fact that this wasn’t exactly what he wanted to be discussing. Now that the person and situation that had caused him distress had left the room, he found that he wanted to talk about it. Except he knew he wouldn’t. Just as much as he knew the impulse to talk about it would disappear as soon as the next time he saw Fiona. 

“You should get a medal,” said Líadan.

Malcolm smiled a bit. “I could always use something shiny.” Then he turned to Hildur. “What’s the deal with Astrid, anyway? She is so... so... you know, I can’t think of an expression that isn’t mean, but also fits what I’m trying to say.”

Hildur laughed. “She is Anders, a devout Andrastian, and a Grey Warden. It’s a potent combination that makes for very good fanatics. And she can be very fanatical at times, as you’ve seen. Georg will keep her in line. If need be, even Marius and I can step in.” At Malcolm’s unconvinced look, she explained, “Marius isn’t that bad. He was over the top at the beginning, I admit, what with practically calling for Morrigan’s head on a pike, but he’s loosened up some on that stance. At least now he’d like to have a conversation with her before killing her.”

“That isn’t exactly reassuring.” He frowned. Or maybe it was. He wasn’t even sure if he ever wanted to see Morrigan again. When she’d left him that night before the final battle, he’d assumed it would be forever, because she’d _told_ him that. But now that they had the possibility of tracking her down, part of him wanted to see her again. More than one part, to tell the truth. But each part warred against the other, that much was certain. One wanted a confrontation made of anger and betrayal, demanding explanation and retribution. The other just wanted to see her again as he remembered her, as the woman he’d fallen in love with, before she had revealed her true nature.

If their love had ever existed in the first place. He wasn’t terribly convinced of that any longer, and he wasn’t sure if seeing her again would help or hinder the process of figuring out what, if anything, had been between them. Maybe Eamon had been right, that he should have broken it off with her. _That_ was another thing he didn’t look forward to once he returned to Ferelden—seeing Eamon. While the arl had yet to point out that he’d been right, Malcolm knew it was coming. It was inevitable. Even someone with the seemingly most impeccable manners eventually veered off the high road. All he could hope for was that Isolde wouldn’t be around when Eamon chose to say ‘I told you so.’

“Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about that,” said Hildur. “I think in the past week we’ve talked about it way more than enough. I actually wanted to find you and warn you that apparently King Hagan is going to be at tonight’s dinner, and he’s bringing his granddaughter with him.”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes at the dwarf. “Please tell me he has more than one granddaughter.”

“Princess Vapid is going to be there?” asked Líadan, overlapping Malcolm’s statement.

“Princess Vapid? Oh, you mean Princess _Ilsa_. Yes.” Hildur said, and then laughed, a now familiar, warm sound. 

Líadan shrugged. “I couldn’t remember her name properly. And, well, she’s vapid, you have to admit. She was practically throwing her assets at Malcolm right in front of everyone, which means _everyone_ got a big eyeful of said assets.” She scowled at the memory. “Also, I really don’t like her. Maybe I’ll skip dinner.”

“Please don’t skip out,” Malcolm immediately said, stricken at the idea of having to face the twit of a princess without his partner in crime. “Besides, if you did, your stomach would eat itself. That wouldn’t be a pretty sight. And without you there, Princess Vapid will accost me or something and that wouldn’t be pretty either. At all.”

Hildur fixed an amused look on Líadan. “He’s right, you know. If you show, she’ll mostly behave herself. She’s afraid of you.”

The elf’s brows raced towards her hairline. “Afraid of me?”

Malcolm snorted. “Afraid of Líadan? Really?” Granted, Líadan was a warrior mage, powerful in her own right, but she wasn’t intimidating. She was a bit short, being an elf, as height wasn’t exactly her strong point, she was at least taller than Fiona, but most people aside from dwarves were taller than his natural mother, he realized. Líadan’s limbs were toned and quick and she could wield a blade as effectively as any trained non-mage. She was stubborn, outspoken, and could curse the ears off of anyone. But for all of that, it was contained within a very non-threatening, oft-times equally adorable as confounding as infuriating package of a person. At least to him, anyway. “She isn’t scary.”

At that, Líadan turned and glared at him with an intensity he hadn’t seen, and had pretty much forgotten, since those first days after she’d been conscripted. The woven arcs of the tattoos across her brow that dashed down to the middle of her cheeks served to illuminate untold depths of irritation in her emerald green eyes. The twin slanted lines beneath each side of her bottom lip deepened the frown that formed on her mouth, making it more powerful. Put together, it served to make elf’s countenance at once beautiful and frightening. This was a particular glare that he never should have forgotten. “Okay, I take it back. Definitely scary.” He gave an exaggerated, fake shudder. “And I thought archdemon nightmares were bad.” 

Eventually, when she wasn’t frustrated with him, he’d have to ask her about the tattoo. He knew that it was a Dalish thing, that their word for it translated to blood writing, and each different tattoo design represented a different god from the elven pantheon. But that’s as far as his knowledge went, and he felt a bit bad as he realized he didn’t even know what god or goddess his friend had chosen for her tattoo. Of course, asking that question at the moment would be most unwise, and probably physically painful once asked. So he kept his question to himself. As a reward for his quick capitulation, not only did Líadan not hit him with a lightning spell, she graced him with a smile, informing him that she’d been messing with him the entire time.

“So you’ll come to dinner, then?” Malcolm asked.

Líadan sighed. “Yes. If only because I can scare that idiotic woman.”

Before dinner, they found themselves once again meeting with Georg, and Malcolm really couldn’t wait to never spend a single second in the First Warden’s study ever again. The usual people were present, of course. Astrid, Hildur, Fiona—and the silence between Malcolm and Fiona was as bad as ever. Marius was there again, as he would apparently be accompanying them for part of the journey. It seemed there would be a sizable group of Grey Wardens heading out of Weisshaupt, splitting off into different groups and going in different directions as they traveled south. Using one of his maps, Georg showed Malcolm and Líadan the route they were going to take to get to Ferelden. They would be heading directly east out of Weisshaupt, using a mountain pass that would take them straight to the Imperial Highway and into the Tevinter Imperium. That’s where Marius would leave the party, he told them, as Marius had an assignment to research what he could of the Old Gods in the ancient Tevinter times. After Marius split from them, they would continue following the highway south and straight through the Silent Plains, which were still empty and desiccated from the First Blight. Just after the Plains, they would cross the Minanter River and into Nevarra. At the end of the Imperial Highway, they would be in Cumberland, where they would board a ship bound for West Hill. “All told,” Georg finished, “if things go as planned, or even close to it, you should arrive in West Hill within two weeks. Most likely less, especially if you get favorable winds on the Waking Sea.”

Malcolm frowned. “Why West Hill? Highever has a port of its own. A much better one, at that. There’s no need to dock at West Hill and waste a day on overland travel to Highever.”

“I know you want to get there as soon as possible,” Georg said, command and sympathy oddly mixed together in his tone, “but it isn’t your decision to make. You’re landing in West Hill in case there’s darkspawn activity outside of Highever, both the city and the castle. That way, you and your group can take care of the darkspawn threat right away, instead of having to fight your way out.”

“That... makes sense, actually,” Malcolm said, though the irrational part of him still wanted to go straight to Highever’s port. But, it made sense to travel there via West Hill, even as reluctant as he was to delay their arrival. Then it hit him just how little time Georg had predicated it would take to get there in the first place. “It will really take less than two weeks? I mean, when we traveled up here, it took more than two _months_.”

“That’s because the cortège took one of the longest routes possible in all of Thedas and took their sweet time doing so,” Marius replied. “Bloody Orlesians.”

“Why, Marius, you sound almost Fereldan when you say that,” said Fiona.

He rolled his eyes, an action that seemed rather uncharacteristic from such a grizzled warrior. Then, to Malcolm, he said, “Anyway, at normal speed, even that long route would’ve taken just one month. They took bloody well forever.”

“That explains how I so easily caught up to Malcolm,” said Líadan. “I had to sail from Denerim to Val Royeaux. That’s five days at sea. Five days, mind you, that I spend puking over the side of the ship. Never so much in my life have I wanted to kill Riordan quite so badly.”

“You volunteered,” Malcolm pointed out. He wondered if she would get seasick again or if the five days on the ship would have given her sea legs for the return trip. Since he’d grown up in a port city, he’d spent many a day on ships and had no problems with seasickness. In truth, he loved being on the ocean, even in the highest of seas.

“He didn’t mention sea travel! All I knew was that you’d gone on land.” She made a face showing her displeasure at the notion of journeying on the ocean again. “Anyway, once I reached Val Royeaux, it just took a couple days to catch up with you guys outside of Montfort. Kind of ridiculous, really, how little time it took to catch you.”

“Exactly,” said Marius. 

Georg cleared his throat to once again get the attention of the rest of the Wardens in the room. “The hardest part of the trip will be through the Silent Plains, as you won’t be able to scavenge, hunt, or resupply while you’re there. You’ll be about two days there, but not to worry, as you will be well-supplied. You’ll be traveling with a significant number of sovereigns intended for the Fereldan Grey Wardens, as I know your stockpiles were pillaged by Loghain’s men during the civil war. So everything will have to be well watched and guarded, though I don’t see much of a problem as long as the Warden heraldry is prominently displayed. Through the Anderfels, Tevinter, and Nevarra, you won’t have any problems with bandits as long as they know you are Wardens. So, all of your gear and gold should be safe.”

Malcolm didn’t ask how much gold, but from how Georg was talking, he gathered it would be a very significant amount. Enough so that he felt a bit nervous at having to travel with it. But it couldn’t be escaped, as the First Warden was right. They needed to resupply and rebuild, and to do that, one needed gold. 

“Once Marius departs for Minrathous, you’ll be in charge of the traveling party as a whole, Malcolm,” said Georg.

The declaration made Malcolm sit bolt upright in his chair. “What?”

Georg’s mouth twitched in a smile as he signed another missive with melted wax and a press of his signet ring. Then he handed the paper over to Malcolm. “Your orders. Yes, the Grey Wardens do actually do some things formally. I know you don’t want to, but like it or not, you’re going back to Ferelden as Riordan’s second.”

Scowling, Malcolm eyed the paper with his orders warily, as if it would burn him when he touched it. With a sigh, he took the paper from the First Warden’s outstretched hand. He’d known the orders were coming, it wasn’t like it could’ve turned out any other way. Besides, he knew he should be used to this sort of thing from the Wardens by now. He’d been a conscript, after all, and shouldn’t have expected things to change much. “Will it just be the three of us being assigned to Ferelden, then?” he finally asked.

“Yes. The others going with you initially will be on the hunt for Morrigan, and thus independent. Most likely, they’ll be parting ways with you, Líadan, and Fiona fairly quickly. And don’t look so maudlin. It isn’t that bad.” Georg smiled kindly. “At least you aren’t being made Warden Commander. You look so pale right now that I’d hate to see you when that happens.”

“ _When_ that happens?” Malcolm managed to say, and then he held up his hands. “You know what? Nevermind. Don’t... don’t say anything else. I think I’ve heard enough.” In between now and Riordan’s Calling, he decided, he would have to find someone else suitable to be Warden Commander. He most definitely didn’t want it to be him. 

The First Warden broke into soft laughter, handed them more messages and maps, and then sent them on their way, especially cautioning Malcolm and Líadan about the dinner that night. The meal ended up going better than Malcolm had figured, as Líadan’s apparently intimidating Dalish nature kept the overly enthusiastic Anders princess away. Ilsa, whom Malcolm nearly called Princess Vapid to her face more than once, found Líadan interposed between her and Malcolm whenever she tried to make any sort of move. And those few times when she’d tried much the same when Líadan had stepped away, Fiona, of all people, somehow kept Ilsa from doing anything untoward. Malcolm found Fiona’s actions more than surprising and told Líadan such, but the elf had shrugged it off with a smile and merely said, “She’s your mother.”

Which, to him, really didn’t explain a thing and really only served to make things all the more confusing. But he could tell from the look on Líadan’s face that she wasn’t going to offer anything else by way of explanation, and if he pressed, she’d just drag Fiona into it, which he hadn’t wanted her to do in the first place. Maker help him, he didn’t even know what to _call_ Fiona now. It’d been much easier when the two of them just pretended that nothing more was there between them other than the normal Warden bond. Instead, in her own unique and devastatingly effective away, Líadan had changed everything. 

In the morning, Líadan stopped by his room to pick him up. Though he’d mostly learned his way around Weisshaupt Fortress, it’d become habit for her to stop by on the way to breakfast, and it was odd when she didn’t. They started out for the dining hall until Líadan glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, and then did a double take before coming to a halt. “What’s that on your face?”

He blinked at her. “What?” He knew she didn’t mean the scar, which was usually what a question like that was about.

Líadan reached up and brushed a quick hand over scruff on his cheek. “That.” Then she took her hand back while peering at the scruff as if it were a wild animal. “Are you _actually_ growing a beard?”

“I wanted to know if it would actually affect you in combat.” He certainly wasn’t going to tell her that he’d just been lazy. “And, since we haven’t seen any combat, I haven’t shaved.”

Líadan made a disapproving noise and Gunnar barked in agreement with her. Then she forced him to turn around and marched him back to the room he’d stayed in, and waited while he shaved. “Really,” she said as he glared at her through the mirror’s reflection, “it’s for everyone’s safety. Mages bursting into riotous laughter during combat can only be dangerous for everyone involved, not just darkspawn.”

Her actions served to make them conspicuously late for breakfast, bringing a frown of disapproval from Marius, and, for some reason, a knowing grin from Hildur to Líadan, as if they’d been up to something, well, untoward. Then Hildur elbowed Fiona in the ribs, indicated the two young Wardens who’d just walked into the cavernous dining hall, and grinned again. Fiona rolled her eyes in reply and went back to her breakfast. Malcolm had no idea what that was all about, but he couldn’t agree more with Fiona’s opinion on the matter. He decided that Wardens from Weisshaupt, Anders or not, were a strange sort. He and Líadan dumped their gear by the door and plunged into the line for food.

After they’d eaten, Malcolm realized he’d gotten nothing for his Alistair while he’d been there. Well, aside from their mother, but that didn’t exactly count as they couldn’t really ever acknowledge that she was their mother when they were in Ferelden. He turned toward Astrid, as he figured she wouldn’t laugh at him for the question he’d ask. Not that she wouldn’t think it strange, but since she was Anders, she’d at least refrain from outright laughing at him, unlike the other people at the table. “Is there any cheese specific to the Anderfels?” he asked.

The Second Warden raised an eyebrow. “Cheese?”

“To bring back for my brother Alistair. He’s a bit... obsessed with it.”

“And you?” Fiona asked from next to Hildur.

Malcolm did his best not to squirm uncomfortably under the elf’s inscrutable gaze. “I like it well enough, I suppose, but I don’t consider it the Maker’s gift to His children like Alistair does. And... please don’t tell him I said that. It would break his heart.”

“A gift for the King of Ferelden,” Astrid said, ignoring the side conversation between Alistair and Fiona. 

Malcolm rolled his eyes.

“I’m with Malcolm on this one,” said Líadan. “I can’t think of another more appropriate gift for Alistair other than cheese. It doesn’t matter if it smells like feet and probably tastes worse, he’ll love you forever for it. Honestly, the only thing I can think of that’d make a better gift is a griffon, and I’ve yet to see one around here.”

“Always with the griffons,” Hildur muttered. “Do you youngsters think of nothing else?”

Malcolm and Líadan exchanged a look, and then both brightly said, “No!”

“Alistair and I tortured a mage we traveled with for weeks, bugging her for stories about griffons or asking if stories she was telling us had griffons,” Malcolm said. 

“She must’ve loved that,” said Hildur. “Will you do the same with Fiona?”

“I don’t know any stories about griffons,” the elf quickly said, looking first at Hildur, and then toward the two younger Wardens. “So don’t even bother asking. Not once.”

“Now that’s just sad,” said Líadan. “I might cry from the disappointment.”

“Dry your tears, young lady,” Marius said, getting to his feet. “We need to get going, and if you’re crying, the tears will freeze to your face out there and you’ll be very uncomfortable.”

Hildur raised her eyebrows at him. “That is remarkably practical advice.”

“Everyone learns something useful from the Anders while they’re here at Weisshaupt,” came Marius’s reply, drawing a glare from Astrid, which he replied to with a smirk. “Even if it’s just a large amount of practicality.”

The dwarf’s ensuing laughter reminded Malcolm that not all of the Weisshaupt people were dour and single-minded. And that, perhaps, he would miss this place a bit. At least it’d been nice to have over five hundred other Wardens around him, reminding him that he belonged to a large and significant order. That he wasn’t alone. That was a sentiment he’d sorely missed during the Blight. There were so few Wardens waiting back in Ferelden that it seemed liked they were headed back towards emptiness. 

But however empty Ferelden might feel, it was home.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

“Finally, in the year 992 of the Tevinter Imperium, upon the Silent Plains, they met the archdemon Dumat in battle. A third of all the armies of northern Thedas were lost to the fighting, but Dumat fell and the darkspawn fled back underground.

Even that was not the end.

The Imperium once revered seven gods: Dumat, Zazikel, Toth, Andoral, Razikale, Lusacan, and Urthemiel. Four have risen as archdemons. The Grey Wardens have kept watch through the ages, well aware that peace is fleeting, and that their war continues until the last of the dragon-gods is gone.”

—from _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

**Malcolm**

“Are you going to Tevinter to hunt Morrigan?” Malcolm asked Marius, wondering when he’d replaced ‘searched for’ with ‘hunt’ in his head. Because, if everyone was honest, that’s exactly what the search was. He’d trained a bunch of quasi-templars and now they were hunting Morrigan. Though the warriors had the abilities, he knew people would end up dead, and most likely, it wouldn’t be Morrigan. Part of him was on her side and cheering for her. The other part wished he were one of the hunters. 

Marius studied the landscape around them for a moment as he considered his answer. “No,” he finally said. “Not exactly. There will be archons who will want the child. Some Tevinters never learned their lesson. There are pockets of people who still worship the Old Gods for some reason.” He shrugged. “Obviously, I’m not one of them. But I’m going back to Tevinter to make sure there aren’t any rumors going around about a possible uncorrupted Old God on the surface. That, and do what research I can about the Old Gods. Tevinter will have better information on them than any other nation, as I’m sure you can figure out. Speaking of Tevinter, don’t forget that one of your orders after you get back is to collect the remains of that mirror you found in the Brecilian Forest. It’s in one of those papers Georg gave you. But, the recovery can wait until you’ve dealt with the Architect situation.”

Malcolm nodded, deciding that while he was doing in that in the Brecilian Forest area, he’d drop down into the Korcari Wilds to find that spirit if he could. If he didn’t have any ashes, he’d have to find the location and note it on the map, but if he was there, he might as well look. And since he would be in the area, he could also stop by Flemeth’s old hut, if it was still there. A little extra information couldn’t hurt the ongoing search. 

Marius, along with one of the hunting parties, left for Minrathous as soon as they got to the Imperial Highway. As Malcolm had thought, the rest of the Weisshaupt Wardens traveling with them kept to themselves, both on the road and in the camps they made, chatting amiably—if that were possible for them—in Anders. That left him and Líadan without any real openings to join in on the conversations. Not that they would have, but it felt strange to have no opportunity at all to break the so-called ice with their traveling companions.

Líadan sidled up to him in one of the camps before the Silent Plains, a frown on her face and casting curious looks at the Anders. “What are they saying?” she asked quietly once she sat next to him.

He blinked. “You’re asking _me_?”

“They’re humans, aren’t they?”

He rolled his eyes. “Who are from the _Anderfels_. Which means they speak _Anders_. I don’t speak Anders. Orlesian, yes. Fluently. Passing Antivan. I can read Arcanum, which is Tevinter’s language. Haven’t a clue about Anders, though. They could be reciting love poems for all I know.”

“Some use you are,” she replied, disappointment on her face as she turned toward the fire.

“What? Because you speak ancient Elvish, right? You know every Dalish dialect out there?”

“Of course not.”

“Then shut up.”

She scowled at him in reply, and then stole the stick he used for poking the fire and stabbed at it herself. He raised an eyebrow at the show of temper, but said nothing. It was fair, he’d snapped at her, after all, after a rather innocuous question. But he’d been wondering what the Anders were saying as well, wondering what their plans were for the Morrigan hunt, where they would be going, where the latest news was. It was really hard being out of the loop, especially where she was concerned. He sighed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

Líadan raised another eyebrow, but said nothing for a moment, just jabbing the fire instead. “It’s okay. I wonder, too,” she replied, as if she were reading his thoughts. “That’s why I asked you.”

“You do?” he asked, giving an opening to start a conversation about Morrigan before he’d thought entirely through the consequences of the question.

“As you pointed out before, she _was_ my friend. After what she did...” she trailed off and shrugged. “I just want to know what will happen to her and when. Part of me wants to be on one of those search parties, too.”

He frowned into the fire. “Why do you care so much?”

When Líadan didn’t reply after a moment, Malcolm turned to look at her. The light from flames played against the lines of the tattoos on her face, illuminating her thoughtful frown. Then she shifted uncomfortably on the grass underneath them. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

As he’d given the same answer many times over in the past year, he accepted the answer. “Fair enough.” At least for now. Eventually, he’d have to find out why. Instead of leaving the uncomfortable silence, he changed the subject. “So, your tattoo. I know the elven name for it means ‘blood writing’ and I know that you guys choose a symbol of a certain god of your pantheon for it. I was wondering, what god does yours represent?”

At the question, an odd look passed across her face, reluctance and fondness mixed together. “Andruil,” she answered. “Goddess of the hunt. She created the _Tanadahl_ —the Way of Three Trees. First, the _Vir Assan_ , or Way of the Arrow: fly straight and do not waver. Second, the _Vir Bor’assan_ , or the Way of the Bow: bend but never break. Third, the _Vir Adahlen_ , or the Way of the Forest: together we are stronger than one.” Then she said, “We are the last of the elvhenan. Never again shall we submit.” At his curious look, she explained, “We always end the mantra that way. Even telling it to you, it felt strange not to finish it like it’s normally done.”

He nodded, making a note to himself to find out more about what happened between elves and humans. He knew a little from what he learned as a child, but hadn’t paid as much attention to it as he should have. “So why’d you choose the goddess of the hunt if you’re a mage?”

 Líadan smiled. “See, I didn’t find out I was a mage until after I’d gotten my _vallaslin_.” She pointed to her tattoos to translate the word. “I still had plans on being a hunter. I mean, _was_ a hunter, not even a novice. It wasn’t until one of the boys in the clan annoyed me and I got into a fight with him and hit him with lightning that the keeper realized what I was.”

“Why is it that all the female mages that I know always find out they’re mages when they’ve been annoyed by some boy and inadvertently set him on fire or zapped him or whatever?” he asked, and then realized that he didn’t even really _know_ any male mages. He’d known of them, as there was Connor and Jowan and Irving, of course, but he’d never traveled with one. 

“You boys just bring out the best of us, I guess,” she replied, the smile growing wider on her lips. 

“What are you two conspiring about?” Fiona asked, drifting over and sitting across the fire from them. 

“Us?” asked Líadan, throwing a glance in the direction of the Anders. “What are _they_ conspiring about?”

“Nothing exciting,” came Fiona’s quick reply as she brushed some dust off her skirt. “Anders politics, actually. Some of them had wanted your Princess Vapid to fall into Malcolm’s good graces and form some sort of even more solid alliance between Ferelden and the Anderfels.”

Malcolm groaned and flopped back onto the grass. “I _knew_ there was more to that than she let on. Not that she let on about much more other than ‘here are my greatest assets’ and expected me to fall for it. Besides, the alliance is strong enough already. Alistair and I are already Grey Wardens. It isn’t like you can just stop being one. Ever. You can’t quit the taint and the darkspawn.” He scowled. “That’s something else we’re going to have to figure out. They’re going to find out about the Calling in a bit less than thirty years with Alistair. I suppose he could get as lost at sea as Maric or something so he can go to Orzammar and the Deep Roads if nothing else kills him before then. It isn’t like we can tell anyone the truth. I can’t imagine that going well. ‘Oh, by the way, your king is going to turn into a creepy ghoul if he doesn’t go commit suicide by darkspawn soon. No, no, that’s plenty normal for Grey Wardens. What? No, we aren’t like normal ghouls, like the ones we insist on killing before they turn. No, really! Stop it with the lynch mob!”

“Your optimism astounds me,” Líadan said. 

“I do my best.”

“Not every Grey Warden has to go on the Calling,” Fiona said quietly, almost as if she didn’t want to say it at all, but felt compelled to anyway.

Malcolm sat up. “What do you mean?”

Fiona sighed. “It has to do with the Deep Roads mission I told you about. Afterwards, I was cured, and they don’t know how. I can still sense the darkspawn, incredibly well, actually even from miles away, but they can’t sense me. I don’t even have the nightmares. Not once did I see the archdemon in my sleep.” She shifted in her position, her normal calm overcome by barely controlled agitation. “It was disturbing, to hear and know the rest of the Wardens, even the ones who had learned to control the dreams, were suffering, and I was exempt.”

“You were lucky,” Líadan told her. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

At Fiona’s dubious look, Malcolm said, “She’s right. We should know. We both Joined during a Blight while physically fairly close to the archdemon. Our First Dream and our subsequence nightmares were far more unpleasant than anything anyone else might have experienced. That you’ve escaped the fate all other Wardens are subject to? Don’t let anyone tell you that makes you less of a Warden. It’s pretty fantastic, actually, that _someone_ isn’t doomed to die in the Deep Roads.”

“It bothers me that Riordan will be leaving for the Deep Roads soon,” Líadan said. “It can’t be longer than a year, not with what he’s been saying. I really think he’s disappointed that he didn’t die when he stabbed the archdemon. Not that I blame him. I’d rather go out like that than the Deep Roads. Creators, I _hate_ the Deep Roads. And to have to watch anyone go down there to just meet their death is... ugh.” She looked up from the fire and at the other elf. “Anyway, I’m glad you don’t have to go through that.”

Fiona gave Líadan a short nod in thanks. “I wish others were as lucky. Yet, even though Weisshaupt spent over twenty years trying to figure out what had cured me, they never figured it out. They first thought it might be connected to...” she trailed off, reluctance to continue showing clearly in her eyes, but she went on anyway after her brief stumble. “To my pregnancy with Alistair. But there were records from past female Grey Wardens giving birth and not having the same fortune as me, so they dismissed it, for the most part. They theorized that, at most, it played a small part in what happened, but figured it must be a combination of that and whatever the brooches did.”

“What made you give him up?” Líadan asked, bringing a shocked look from Malcolm at the prying question.

Fiona was silent for a moment, and both the younger Wardens assumed she wouldn’t answer. But then she did. “Mostly, because I was required to. The other part was that I assumed Maric could provide better care for him. That he wouldn’t be raised with the stigma of having an elven mother, and that Maric could make sure he was out of the line of succession. While he escaped the elven part, obviously he didn’t escape the other.” She sighed. “Or have a very good childhood. Duncan watched over him as best he could, but that woman Isolde did everything she could to confound him and Maric and they couldn’t do anything without exerting too much influence and proving Maric’s connection to Alistair.” The older woman’s face darkened. “And then she gave my son to the Chantry! The son of a mage becoming a _templar_ , of all things.”

“He wouldn’t have been a very good one, if that makes you feel any better,” Malcolm said. “He was horrified at his first and only Harrowing. He was desperate to escape the Chantry and considered Duncan a savior when he conscripted him.”

“I wasn’t too thrilled about that prospect, either,” Fiona replied. “I asked Duncan to do it, if Alistair was a suitable candidate and stood a chance to survive the Joining. But, only if he was unhappy. Too bad submitting himself to the taint turned out to be a better option than remaining with the Chantry.”

“It would’ve been a death sentence, all the same,” said Malcolm.

Fiona gave him a curious look. “What do you mean?”

“The Chantry controls their templars with lyrium. Once they take their vows, templars are required to use it. They tell them that it’s necessary for using their abilities, but that isn’t true. I can use holy smites and cleanse areas without it. So can Alistair and anyone else who can be taught the requisite skills. They addict the templars to lyrium as a means of control. Those men and women are as much prisoners of the Chantry as mages. I’m not saying that the mages stuck under Chantry control aren’t treated worse than the templars, because from what I’ve seen, they _are_ , but templars suffer, too. It’s horrific, really. I think Andraste would be very confused by what she saw if she ever came back. And if any priest heard me say that, they’d call me a blasphemer and heretic. But I don’t care. After you travel with mages for a long time, your views really start to change. That, and how easily the templars were willing to use the Right of Annulment at the Circle Tower, it just all seems so wrong. There were plenty of mages locked behind those doors who were innocent of any wrongdoing and the Chantry was willing to throw their lives away like they weren’t even _people_.” He sighed. “There’s no reason to keep mages locked up like they do. Yes, they need to be taught how to control their powers, but that’s all. It isn’t like people choose to become mages, they’re _born_ mages.” He blinked at the suddenness and strength if his rant. “Sorry, I guess I didn’t realize how strongly I felt about it.”

“I don’t think either one of us is going to disagree with you,” Fiona said, a hint of amusement in her voice. Then she stood up. “With that, I’m going to get some sleep. The Anders are keeping watch tonight, so I suggest you rest up before it’s just the three of us and we’re stuck with watch all by ourselves.” She smiled warmly at the two of them, and then made her way to her tent.

Malcolm slid a glance at Líadan. “I think my mother just sent me to bed.”

Líadan grinned, stood up, and patted him on the head, even as he tried to swat away her hand. “I believe she did.”

The next day, they entered the Silent Plains. Malcolm had thought he’d seen the true extent of a Blight’s damage on the land when he’d passed through Blighted Lothering, or the devastation they’d been able to see on both sides of the West Road.

He’d been wrong.

The Silent Plains held nothing, not even the husks of trees or skeletons of the long dead. Hundreds of years had gone by since the final battle of the First Blight, and not a single sign of life lived on the barren land. Dirt kicked up in the wind, twirling into twisters to skitter by the small traveling group on the highway. They stuck to the road, even when they paused long enough to sleep for a few hours, no one willing to step foot on the blasted land, not even the Anders. Conversations were hushed when they even spoke at all. They felt a thinness to the Veil in the place, the echoes of the dead almost audible in their minds. For Malcolm, and even the rest of the Wardens, their time in the Silent Plains couldn’t end soon enough. No wonder this route was rarely taken. It was well worth an extra week’s travel, in normal circumstances, to avoid this tortured land.

By the time they reached Cumberland, all of the Weisshaupt Wardens had parted ways with them. As they stood on the docks, waiting to board the ship bound for West Hill, Malcolm realized that Morrigan might have stood in this very spot, were any of the rumors of her sightings true. His hand went to the ring hanging from his neck—Fiona had returned it to him for the duration of the trip—but he felt nothing from the metal. 

“Thinking of her?” Líadan asked quietly. 

He looked down at her and raised an eyebrow.

She shrugged. “You always touch that ring when you do. Not that hard to tell. That, and I remember Georg saying that people claimed to have seen Morrigan here, on these docks.”

“I know.” His hand fell away from the ring. “I think part of me hoped to see her here.”

“And the other part?”

“Never wants to see her again.”

“Morrigan had better hope she never sees _me_ again,” said Líadan, glaring out across the water of the small harbor. 

At the dark look on the elf’s face, Malcolm made yet again another mental note never to cross the woman. He feared that if he ever truly did, it would mean the end of his life. The anger deepening the green of her eyes made him want to ask her why she was so furious at Morrigan, but it also kept him from asking, as he wanted to keep his head attached to his body. So he kept quiet, letting the threat hang in the salt-laden air as they waited for their ship. 

The sea journey passed without incident and Líadan had even gained her sea legs from her other trip and didn’t throw up once. To Malcolm’s surprise, neither did Fiona. After two days at sea, they landed at West Hill’s tiny port around midmorning. A message they’d gotten mid-trip had informed them that someone would be waiting for them at West Hill. No names had been mentioned and Malcolm hoped it would be Fergus or Alistair, maybe even Oghren. Instead, a tall woman he’d never met started walking towards them up the pier when she noticed the griffon heraldry on their cloaks. Georg had been right about being recognized as Wardens. For the entire trip, they’d not been harassed, not by bandits or even the templars they’d passed outside the chantry in Cumberland’s town proper. 

There had been the compulsory glares at noticing two mages walking together without a templar, but the three had noticed immediately. Shifts to their cloaks made their Warden insignia more prominent, and the glares had turned to grudging nods of respect, even toward the two mages. It made Malcolm happy because it avoided a confrontation—had the templars not relented in their glares, he would’ve said something to them. Fiona was his mother, as much as he might not have talked about it with her, and Líadan was, he had to admit now, a best friend, at the very least. After how much she’d defended him at Weisshaupt, despite the teasing she always did to him, she was obviously more than _just_ a fellow Warden or simple friend. And even if the mages with him had only been fellow Wardens, or even just traveling companions, he probably would’ve said something. Mages were people like anyone else and deserved respect. Admittedly, he hadn’t really come around to that point of view—at least to the point of being willing to speak out about it—until he’d spent time with mages in close proximity. And part of that time was the time he’d spent with Morrigan. Apostate and possibly a maleficar, but a person all the same. She’d had hopes and dreams and vulnerabilities like anyone else. Well, most of the hopes and dreams. Most folks didn’t have dreams of having a child with the soul of an Old God. 

The dark-haired woman in dragonbone heavy mail raised her hand in greeting. “Prince Malcolm?” she asked. At his quick nod, she continued, “My name is Mhairi. I was a knight in the king’s service until I was recruited a month ago to be a Grey Warden, but I haven’t taken my Joining yet. The Warden Commander sent me to bring you back to Highever.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “Did the Warden Commander forget that I grew up in Highever?”

An unsure smile flitted across her face. “The Commander said that you’d make a comment like that, and he told me to tell you that he didn’t want you to get distracted.”

Which was Riordan’s way of saying that now that Malcolm was in Ferelden, he wasn’t allowed to deter from duty any longer. Or at least for the time being, while there was a darkspawn threat yet again. Malcolm understood and fully agreed with the sentiment. He was sworn to protect humanity from the darkspawn, and that’s what he would do, comfortable with the circumstances or no. When he noticed that Mhairi still seemed uneasy, he flashed her a disarming smile. “Don’t worry, I’m not offended at what you said. Riordan’s the one who really said it anyway. Also, if you are to be a Grey Warden, please call me Malcolm.”

Mhairi blinked at him in disbelief, that a noble would so carelessly dismiss their own title. “But you are the king’s brother, a prince of Ferelden, and I am just a commoner.”

He refrained from rolling his eyes. While he didn’t like the title of prince—being called lord while growing up as a Cousland was bad enough—it wasn’t his place to belittle someone else’s manners and propriety. “Your’e a Grey Warden recruit and Wardens are just Wardens to each other, no matter their background. It doesn’t matter who you were before.” Though, technically, he and Alistair were more of a ‘still’ than ‘before.’ 

“I assure you,” said Líadan, “he snores in his sleep and smells after not bathing for a few days like any other person.”

He rolled his eyes at the elf. “Forgive me for not making introductions,” he said to Mhairi after he shot a withering glare at Líadan. “This is Líadan, another Warden from Ferelden.” He motioned toward Fiona after Mhairi and Líadan exchanged slight nods. “And this is Fiona, a Senior Warden from Weisshaupt now assigned to Ferelden.”

“Weisshaupt!” Mhairi exclaimed. “Where the griffons used to be! It must have been glorious to be posted there.”

“Always with the griffons,” Fiona muttered, and then smiled in greeting at the enthusiastic young recruit. 

Meanwhile, Líadan raised an eyebrow at Malcolm, who shrugged. He hadn’t heard someone say the word ‘glorious’ in a serious way since his half-brother Cailan had before the Battle of Ostagar. Somehow, he didn’t think that bode well, but he kept that thought to himself. “All right,” he said out loud, “now that greetings are over, we should get underway. The horses have been offloaded from the ship, and it’s less than a day to Highever from here. We should be able to get there before nightfall if we hurry.”

The four of them set out, leaving the surprisingly bustling port of West Hill behind. As they rode, Mhairi peppered all of them with questions about the Grey Wardens: their history, what it had been like at Weisshaupt, what fighting during the Blight had been like, what their plans were for the future, how they liked being Wardens. She kept bringing up concepts of honor and glory and soon enough, Malcolm started wishing for darkspawn to appear so the woman would just shut up. He couldn’t fault her enthusiasm, Maker knew they needed good recruits and he didn’t doubt the woman’s ability to fight since she’d been in Alistair’s service as a knight, but this woman really had no idea of the reality of being a Grey Warden. She reminded him of both Ser Jory and King Cailan, and it wasn’t a good resemblance, either. Though, he got the feeling from her that she wouldn’t be a coward in the face of danger, so there was that.

However, she seemed not to recognize the danger from Líadan as the elf’s looks of annoyance grew more and more potent as the day continued. When the telltale prickling in their blood alerted them to darkspawn presence, Malcolm almost whooped with joy at the diversion. 

They rounded a bend and found a group of four templars and a mage battling a warband of twenty assorted darkspawn, including an Alpha hurlock and an emissary. A surprisingly large group, considering the Blight had ended months ago. They slid from their horses as they assessed the situation, weapons coming to the ready. He glanced from the melee and back to Fiona. “I take it you’ll be doing ranged combat?”

She nodded. “I do know quite a few offensive spells.”

He looked over at Líadan. “Could you stay back and be ranged as well? Between those templars and the two of us, some other people back from the fray would be better.”

The annoyance heightened on her face for a moment at being asked to stay back, but the tactical part of her mind came forward and acknowledged that the plan would work better were she to stay back, and the irritation disappeared. “Yes. But if you fall, I’m running in there.”

He thought about arguing, and then thought better of it once he saw the set of Líadan’s jaw. Sword drawn and shield slung on his arm, he advanced toward the battle, trying to figure out exactly where they could jump in to provide the best help. One of the templars had already fallen and lay still on the bloodied ground. As Malcolm got closer, he noticed that another of the templars was actually arguing with the tall mage instead of fighting the darkspawn, and that the argument was ridiculously about releasing the mage from his bonds so that he could fight instead of just stand there. When the mage pointed out that they were surrounded and severely outnumbered and that one of the templars was already dead, the arguing templar agreed to release him, a deep scowl on his face informing them all that he had no real wish to do so.

Malcolm really had no idea how people could be so blind in their faith and ignorant to _not_ want a mage’s help against a foe like the darkspawn. Or any foe, really. 

Once released, the mage was able to cast a few quick and powerful spells, impressing Malcolm. He noticed that the templars had yet to smite the emissary, so he started edging in that direction, seeking to get within range and do it himself. He didn’t get there in time, and the emissary managed to hit one of the three remaining templars with a petrify spell. No one cleansed the area soon enough and one of the other darkspawn managed to hit the afflicted templar hard enough to shatter his body into pieces. The two remaining templars shouted with outrage, and to the Wardens’ surprise, both of them turned to the mage fighting with them and hit him with a double smite.

“You stupid bastards!” Líadan shouted from the outskirts.

“You’re telling _me_ ,” Malcolm said, and hit the emissary—the _true_ danger—with a smite, and then Gunnar tore out its throat before it could recover. Morrigan’s opinion of templars had once again proven to be true. They were, indeed, stupid fools. With two of the templars down, Malcolm turned and motioned to Líadan to join the fray to keep the attention off of Fiona in the background. As the darkspawn pressed, the angry templars had foregone outright killing the mage and returned to battling with the darkspawn. Mhairi proved to be quite good with a sword and shield, and the three Grey Wardens and their recruit dispensed with the rest of the darkspawn quite handily. Though, he did have to question the things that woman kept shouting in battle. ‘For the Grey Wardens!’ was more Alistair’s thing and ‘The Maker watches over us!’ seemed a bit presumptuous. However, Malcolm was more annoyed at the templars for not making good use of the mage and actually having turned their backs on the darkspawn in mid-combat than he was annoyed with the darkspawn. At least the darkspawn had an excuse for being stupid.

Darkspawn corpses littered the ground around them, and Malcolm and his fellow Wardens slowly approached the downed mage and the two templars. The templars were red-faced and breathing hard in their heavy plate, though Malcolm wasn’t sure if the red faces were from exhaustion or anger. Judging from the looks they kept giving the poor mage, he guessed anger. 

“I’ll see that you’re hanged for this, murderer!” the female templar shouted at the mage, who was struggling to stand up after the double smite.

“I highly doubt he summoned the darkspawn to attack you,” Malcolm said, making his presence known, though he figured they’d noticed them already, and were just, well, rude.

The woman angrily pointed at the pieces of the dead templar scattered on the ground where his petrified body had crumbled. “He killed this man!”

“It was the darkspawn emissary who killed him,” said Malcolm, glancing over at where the emissary’s body was. He also noticed that Fiona was slowly walking over towards them, a frown marring her face. 

“No, it was this apostate,” the templar insisted. 

Malcolm resisted the urge to smack his forehead with his palm at the woman’s stupidity. Next to him, he could feel Líadan bristling, and even the aura of Fiona’s anger on Líadan’s opposite side. He was fairly certain his own anger and frustration was just as palpable. Aside from knowing the mage hadn’t murdered the dead templar in question, Malcolm also knew the man was good in a battle, even from what little he’d managed to do before the templars had been stupid. He wasn’t sure how he’d do it, but he’d make sure the man wouldn’t be killed by these idiots. And the templars were so well caught up in their righteousness that they hadn’t even bothered to thank him and the others for the rescue. Instead, they went back to ignoring him and returned to berating the drained mage. He cleared his throat a couple times, but to no avail. 

Finally, Líadan asked, “Are you even going to thank us or should we just have left you to the darkspawn?” The ire was clear in her tone and Malcolm approved heartily. Yes, a woman after his own heart with an outburst like that. It’d been exactly what he was thinking but had been trying to find a diplomatic way of asking without it sounding so... outburst-like.

At the female templar’s sudden glare at them, Malcolm said, “You’re welcome, by the way.”

The woman at least had the decency to look slightly embarassed. At first, anyway. Then her expression turned nasty as she finally noticed the staffs in Líadan’s and Fiona’s hands. “You’re saying I should thank more apostates, then?” she asked, sneering at the two female mages. “They’ll be brought in as well, not thanked.”

Malcolm immediately stepped between the templar and the other Wardens, his hand working the grip of his sword. “These two mages happen to be Grey Wardens, Ser Templar, just like me. You’d do well to thank them for their help and never to refer so derisively to someone who has just saved your life.”

The templar blanched and gave the two mages a slight bow, to Malcolm’s surprise. “I apologize, Wardens,” she said. “My name is Ser Rylock. My men and I were bringing this escaped mage back to the Circle when we were beset upon by these darkspawn.”

Malcolm’s eyes shifted to the captured mage once again and noticed that the man had an arrow shaft sticking out of his thigh. “He’s injured,” he said, and then turned to Fiona. “Can you heal him?”

Rylock started to make a sound of protest behind him and Malcolm silenced her with a scathing glare. When she glared back at him, he said, “I can quote the Chant at you if you’d like. There’s lines about helping the least of the Maker’s and such that I can recite verbatim. But I’d rather dispense with the theological argument and have this man healed, instead.” When Rylock didn’t say anything more, he looked at the mage again. “What’s your name?”

“I am Anders, at your service, mage and wanted apostate,” the man replied, eyes flicking uneasily toward the scattered bits of dead templar. “And, uh, I didn’t do it.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

“To date, four of the Old Gods are said to have risen as corrupted archdemons: Dumat, the first and most powerful, was slain at the Battle of Silent Fields. Zazikel fell at the Battle of Starkhaven, Toth died at the Battle of Hunter Fell, and Andoral was felled by Garahel, the legendary Grey Warden, at the Battle of Ayesleigh. The archdemons have been identified only after years of argument among the scholars, and to this day it is unclear whether the archdemons were truly Old Gods and not simply dragons. All that is known is that the darkspawn hunt for them deep underground. If they are truly the Old Gods, as many scholars believe, then we have only three Blights remaining. When all the Old Gods have risen and been slain, however, what will happen? Will the Blights end forever, and humanity earn forgiveness from the Maker at last? We shall see.”

—from _The Old Gods Rise Again_ by Sister Mary, Chantry scholar, 8:50 Blessed

**Malcolm**

“It was an emissary that killed that templar,” Malcolm said to the mage, Anders.

“So you say,” said the other templar in an unwelcome attempt to answer for the mage.

“Since we’re Grey Wardens, we’re more of an authority on the matter than you are, templar,” said Líadan, who had moved out from behind Malcolm, her fingers gripping her staff so tightly that Malcolm could see her knuckles turning white. Soon enough, those fingers would start crackling with energy and he wished his friend had learned how to heal so she could help Anders and give herself something to do other than seethe at the templars. The last thing he needed was for one of the two templars to overreact, hit Líadan with a smite, and set off another fracas. Not that he wouldn’t take her side in an instant, or that he wasn’t on her side in the first place. He just didn’t feel like another fight quite yet.

He edged toward Líadan again as Fiona gracefully moved between the two glowering templars and went to the injured mage. She motioned to Mhairi as she went, and the young recruit walked over to help. “We need to see to the bodies,” Malcolm said to the templars. “Both your dead men and the darkspawn. There isn’t a Blight, but they need to be burned or they’ll poison the land.” 

 Then he motioned for Líadan to follow him as he walked toward the intact dead templar. With one last annoyed glare shot at Ser Rylock, the elf followed him. “You’re being awfully polite to them,” she said, pitching her voice so only he would hear.

“Just trying to avoid a confrontation is all,” he replied in at the same volume. “As annoying as those templars are, we still need to get to Highever before dark if we can.” They’d reached the dead templar and he knelt to prod at the body. To their surprise, the man wasn’t dead. He was still breathing. However, a hurlock had bitten the man’s shoulder, and Malcolm could feel the taint already in the templar’s blood.

“Bitten,” Líadan said, her gauntleted fingers probing at the wound.

Considering that templars were handy against emissaries, at least when their priorities were straight in combat, and that they were usually decently trained warriors, Malcolm mulled over their options. The man would have to be killed outright before he turned into a ghoul, or they could probably try to put him through the Joining and see if he could be saved. Not that he really wanted someone with prejudice against mages in his order, but a life was a life, especially if it could be useful. At the same time, sworn templars were addicted to lyrium, and keeping a templar supplied would lyrium for a lifetime could get expensive, as well as be impractical. 

“We could try to do for him what you did for me,” Líadan said slowly and understandably reluctantly. But Malcolm felt a swell of pride that she’d offer it anyway, showing how far she’d come since she’d become a Warden.

But even with knowing Líadan wouldn’t be angry with him for days should he choose to conscript the man and put him through the Joining, he realized he wouldn’t be able to save him. Already, the taint spread through the templar even more quickly than it had through Leliana after the Battle of Honnleath. The templar would never live long enough for them to get him to a proper Joining. And if the templar was falling this quickly to the taint, it stood to reason that he wouldn’t survive the Joining anyway, even if he might have made a proper Warden.

Malcolm made a small motion toward Rylock and the other templar and they walked over after casting an uneasy glance at Anders, Fiona, and Mhairi. “This man isn’t dead yet,” he said quietly, “but he’s been bitten and is tainted. He will turn soon. Either I can give him mercy, or if you wish, you can. I leave the decision to you, but it must be done at once.”

Before Rylock could reply, the younger templar said, “I’ll do it.”

Malcolm raised a surprised brow, impressed at the man’s courage, though he hadn’t done much since the end of the battle except glower. 

At Malcolm’s reaction, the templar replied, “I carry a Sword of Mercy, after all.”

Malcolm nodded, stood, and stepped away to allow the templars privacy as they dealt with their fallen compatriot. As they’d talked with the two templars, Fiona and Mhairi had managed to remove the arrow shaft from Anders’ leg. Despite the circumstances, the mage seemed in good spirits, and was motioning toward the fallen templar. He said something that Malcolm didn’t catch, but made Fiona glare at him disapprovingly and Líadan laugh out loud. Right, Malcolm remembered, elven hearing. That little ability had allowed Líadan to know about who his and Alistair’s mother was ages ago and why she’d known the cause of the tension between him and Fiona when she shouldn’t have. He’d managed to get that much out of her once he asked how she’d figured it out. It wasn’t like he or his brother looked anything like Fiona. Well, Alistair had her eyes, but that wasn’t very damning given the circumstances. Unless they knew their backgrounds at all, no one would guess Fiona was Alistair’s mother even if they stood next to each other. All an outside observer would notice would be that Fiona was quite tiny, especially when standing next to the tall king. 

He scowled and leaned toward Líadan. “What did he say?”

She grinned. “He said, ‘Biff there made the funniest gurgle when he went down.’ He was talking about that templar over there.”

Malcolm couldn’t help it. He snorted. Fiona, damn her elven ears, heard him, and turned to fix the glare from Anders onto him, followed quickly to Líadan. The younger elf shrugged and kept right on grinning. Fiona rolled her eyes and went back to prodding at Anders’s wound, making the blonde haired man hiss in pain. “She did that on purpose,” Malcolm said.

“Without a doubt,” Líadan replied. Then she glanced around them, taking stock of the bodies. “We should probably get to heaping these things together and setting them on fire.” She tugged at his arm. “Come on. Those templars might be a while, they’re saying prayers over that dead one or something.”

He and Líadan started pushing, and carrying where necessary, the darkspawn bodies into a pile to be burned. The two templars joined them halfway through, and they made short work of the rest. As one templar reached for what Malcolm assumed was flint and steel, Líadan smirked at him, reached with her hand, and set the bodies ablaze with the flick of a wrist. The templar started to protest and Malcolm cut him off with a raised hand. “Saves time.”

Leaving the burning darkspawn bodies behind them, the four returned to where Fiona and Mhairi were helping the now-healed Anders back to his feet. The only remnant of his injury was the hole in his robes from the arrow and the blood spattered around it, which the blond mage scowled at. “There go my best robes,” he muttered before looking up and thanking Fiona. “I could’ve healed myself,” he added, “but, you know, being hit with two smites at once kind of did me in.”

“That will be the least of your problems, murderer,” Rylock said.

“Oh, we’re not on about that again, are we?” Anders asked. “I thought we cleared that up. That I wasn’t the one who killed the templar, I mean.”

Malcolm folded his arms over his chest and settled his gaze on Rylock. “We _did_ go over that, Ser Rylock. It was the emissary who killed that man. I was witness to it.”

“I think you were at the wrong angle to see it properly, Warden,” said the younger templar. 

“I wasn’t the only witness. My three companions also saw the emissary kill the other templar.”

“Beg your pardon, Warden, but two of the witnesses are also mages. That invalidates their testimony,” Rylock replied, her tone informing them that he must be the dullest of men to think otherwise.

He allowed some of his anger to show on his face. “They’re Grey Wardens and that’s all that matters.”

“Not to the Chantry.”

“You’re really going to see this man hanged?”

Rylock blinked at him and Malcolm started to think that the woman _did_ think him a dullard. “Yes. This man is a murderer.”

Malcolm stared at the templar, absolutely bewildered at the woman’s refusal to believe this mage couldn’t be anything less than a cold-blooded killer. Especially in the face of four witnesses, who had no connection to the man whatsoever and were Grey Wardens, claiming otherwise. He looked over at Anders again, who seemed rather resigned to his fate. Then he glanced back to Rylock. 

She sighed at the unspoken question in his voice and said, “If you’ll let us go on our way, I would be much obliged. It’s time to see this man to justice.”

“Oh, the things you know about justice would fit into a thimble,” Anders said.

“Silence!” Rylock shouted at him. “You will be hanged, make no doubt about that.”

“Andraste’s flaming... this is the stupidest thing... oh, sod it,” Malcolm said, more to himself than anyone else. Then he stopped his grumbling, drew himself up to his full height, and looked Rylock in the eye. “I hereby invoke the Right of Conscription on this mage. He is to be taken into my custody and will become a Grey Warden.” Out of the corner of his eye, he expected to see Líadan glaring at him, but instead, she seemed pleased, even smug in her look toward the templars. 

“Me? A Grey Warden?” said Anders, who then shrugged noncommittally. “I suppose that will work.” Fiona motioned for him to move closer to her and he did so, smoothly enough to not draw the templars’ attention.

Rylock gaped at Malcolm. “I will not stand for this. The Chantry will not stand for this. I will go to the king.”

“You do that,” Malcolm said as blandly as he could, even managing to keep a straight face. 

Next to him, Líadan burst out laughing. “Good luck with that. I don’t think you’ll get too far, but you’re welcome to try.”

The templar moved her glare to Líadan. “Why do you find this so amusing, elf?”

Líadan gave Malcolm an expectant look, telling him that she’d given him the opening and he was now required to take it. Malcolm heaved a heavy sigh and then said to Rylock, “My name is Malcolm Theirin, younger brother to King Alistair Theirin. And while I’m doing introductions, the woman you just referred to as ‘elf’ is Líadan, and it would be best if you referred to her as Líadan or Warden and not elf. My other two companions are Fiona, a Senior Warden, and Ser Mhairi, a knight formerly in service to the king and now a Grey Warden recruit.”

“I don’t believe you,” Rylock said to him. 

This time it was Fiona who laughed, but Mhairi who spoke up. “I served as a knight for the king and I saw him enough times to know what his brother looks like,” she said. “You’re speaking with Prince Malcolm, have no doubt of that. You should treat him with far more respect than you are, Ser Rylock.”

“Well, Prince Malcolm,” said Rylock, who sounded like she still didn’t really believe them, but wasn’t willing to risk it any longer, “the Grand Cleric will learn of this. Don’t think you’ve heard the last from us about this apostate.”

“If you say so,” Malcolm replied. 

Rylock scoffed and gave him a short bow, one so small he wasn’t even sure if it qualified as one. “We’ll be on our way. Good day, ser.” Then she signaled to the younger templar and they stalked off in the direction of West Hill.

“And good riddance,” said Anders. 

“The more templars I meet, the more I’m convinced that Alistair would’ve made a _horrible_ one. Why the Grand Cleric pitched such a fit when Duncan recruited him, I have no idea. She should’ve been happy to be rid of him, given his personality was so very ill-suited to being a templar,” Malcolm said, watching in the direction the templars had walked until they’d disappeared from sight. 

“So, what do I call you?” Anders said to Malcolm once the templars had gone. “Senior Warden? Prince? Your Majesty? Your Royal Highness? What?”

He blinked at the sudden question, still trying to fathom how he’d gone and conscripted someone, and how he’d deal with the fallout later. “Malcolm.”

Anders raised a dubious eyebrow. “Really, that’s it? All those titles and you just want to be called by your given name?”

Malcolm shrugged. “If you want to make it more exciting, you can call me whatever Líadan calls me when I’m out of earshot. I’m sure that’s colorful.”

The new recruit glanced over at Líadan for confirmation. “I’ll tell you later if you want,” she said.

“I knew it,” said Malcolm, at first feeling amused, and then, as he noticed the sun touching the treetops, became morose. He sighed. “We’re still hours from Highever. We’ll have to make camp for the night. Though, preferably, a bit further away from here.” He turned to Anders again.  “I don’t suppose you have a horse that somehow got spooked and ran away and will come trotting back at any moment, do you?” 

“Unfortunately, no. Templars didn’t see fit to allow me a horse.”

Malcolm sighed again. “Of course not.” He scowled and considered how they could travel as they walked back to the horses, the last of the darkspawn burning into ash in their wake. Anders couldn’t double up with anyone, as he was as tall and looked to be as well-muscled as Malcolm or Alistair. He supposed he could ask two of the women to double up or even one of them to ride with him. 

It was Líadan who solved the dilemma. “Fiona, ride with me,” she said. “It’s just for a few hours, right? Fiona and I are the smallest and lightest, so I think my horse will be okay for the short journey. Besides, we won’t ride far tonight and the horse will be even more rested. That way, Anders can ride Fiona’s horse. I assume Fergus will have spare horses at Highever?”

Malcolm nodded. “He should.” Fiona handed the reins to her horse to Anders and hopped up behind Líadan. The group rode for half an hour before Malcolm called a stop before the light dimmed too much to be able to pitch a proper camp. Wanting something to do, he set to making dinner as Anders and, surprisingly, Mhairi chatted. The knight kept fending off the mage’s obvious advances with attempts at changing the subject to the Grey Wardens and their history and how glorious and honorable it would be to become one. 

Líadan, helping Malcolm with the stew, rolled her eyes as she listened, and then said quietly, “If she says one more thing about glory and honor, I’m going to punch her in the face.”

Malcolm cast her a pleading smile. “I thought you’d have done that _ages_ ago. Please do. Please. Right now, in fact.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Fiona giving him a strange look from across the fire. “What? Don’t look at me like that. Líadan and I were both conscripts, you know that. Nothing about honor or glory in how _we_ joined. That, and spouting crap about glory and honor is what got one of my brothers killed. Apparently glory leads to very bad ends. And, where Líadan is concerned, punches in the face.”

“There’s no need to deride how others feel about the Grey Wardens,” Fiona said after glancing over toward the two recruits to make sure they couldn’t hear them. “I’ve been a Warden long enough to know that half of us join under less than auspicious circumstances. However, considering that Ferelden has a serious lack of native Wardens, it’d do good for the order to have a good reputation so more suitable recruits can be found.” She nodded her head towards Anders. “Good job on him, by the way. He has a lot of skill and I think he’ll survive the Joining.”

He wanted to argue over the half-scolding, but the compliment wiped away any of the irritation he’d had. “But does she have to be so enthusiastic about it?”

“Were you ever enthusiastic about the Grey Wardens?”

He made a face. “Maybe. When I thought they had griffons and rode them gloriously into battle.”

Líadan punched him in the arm.

“Ow! What? I was a child at the time!” He rubbed the sore spot on his arm. “And you said there would be punches if she said anything else about glory. You said nothing about me.”

“It was implied.”

“Oh, right, because I’m so good at subtlety.”

Malcolm took midwatch that night so that the others could sleep uninterrupted. The Wardens had decided that Anders couldn’t yet be trusted to take watch, at least not alone, due to the alarms that’d been set off in their minds at the mage’s comment about this having been his seventh escape from the Tower. Until Malcolm could have a deeper conversation with the other man and determine if it was the Chantry he was trying to escape or any matter of authority in general, he’d leave him off the watch roster. At least they only had the one night to worry about for now, since they’d arrive in Highever tomorrow morning. As for Mhairi, he just didn’t know her well enough quite yet to trust her with keeping watch alone. He knew it was pretty much an irrational fear since she’d served his brother as a knight, but he couldn’t shake it. That, and she wasn’t yet a full Warden, and wouldn’t be able to sense the approach of any darkspawn. So they’d split the watch between the three full Wardens and he relieved an incredibly bored-looking Líadan in the middle of the night, who had then happily shuffled off with her bedroll into the tent she was sharing with Fiona, since she’d lent Anders hers. At first it’d looked like Mhairi was going to volunteer her tent, but Líadan had jumped in quickly when she realized that meant that at some point she’d have to share close space with the recruit and that would most likely end in unpleasant violence. 

Keeping his senses open in case of the appearance of any darkspawn, Malcolm stared at the flames, knowing he was wrecking his night vision, but with the Warden ability, he didn’t need to worry about that. Plus, Gunnar would be able to hear any bandits that might try to attack them in the night, even though the mabari was sacked out outside Fiona’s tent. When Malcolm had gotten up, Gunnar had woken up as well, and had shifted his guard position to the elf’s tent. It made Malcolm wonder if the dog knew of the connection between him and Fiona, and given the mabari’s intelligence, he assumed Gunnar did. That, and Gunnar seemed to rather like Fiona, the same as he did Líadan, and, he remembered, the same as he had Morrigan.

The memory caused Malcolm to reach inside his breastplate and take out Morrigan’s ring again, studying the engraving in the firelight. That something so small and simple could lead him to her fascinated him and at the same time illuminated the power of magic. Usually invisible until it was ready to be used, magic was a powerful and unseen force that many people feared. He didn’t fear it, as he saw it as a tool, like any other, just one with vastly different properties. Magic, in of itself, no matter what the blind and overly devout believed, wasn’t inherently evil. He’d come to believe that even blood magic wasn’t inherently evil. What mattered, in the end, was how the magic was used, the intent behind the magic, the purpose and what it would do as a result. 

That’s part of what bothered him about Morrigan and what she’d done—he didn’t know what the end result would be. All he could think of was that it was going to be bad. After all, it was the soul of an Old God that would be reborn and loose on Thedas. The Maker had seen the Old Gods as a scourge on the world and had imprisoned them underground for that very reason. Then the Old Gods had called to the Tevinter magisters who’d sought more power, taught them blood magic, and then taught them how to step into the Golden City.

So maybe, along with the darkspawn, the Old Gods spoke to those who sought vast power. Did Morrigan seek that kind of power? No, he knew she did. She’d told him once that power was everything and love was a weakness. But Morrigan wasn’t going to be the one possessed with the soul and possible power of the Old God. The child would. And children, though adults often tried to control them, by and large became their own people. Knowing Morrigan, no child of hers would be easily controlled and receptive to authority in any way. A crooked half-grin came to his face as he wished Morrigan to have a child who was exactly like her and confounded her just as she had done to everyone else. 

Then the smile dropped away, realizing that the child Morrigan was going to have was Zevran’s, and not his. If he was going to be honest with himself, he had to admit that bothered him. Though it meant that the responsibility to an Old God child existing on Thedas wasn’t his through paternity, part of him didn’t _like_ that the woman he’d once loved was having a child with another man. Even though that man was no longer around, being dead, and even had he lived, never would have been involved with the child’s life.

And could that child really even be called a child at all? It would have the soul of an immortal god, not whatever soul a child was given by the Maker. But, being born as a human, it would have to go through the process of growing up, and he’d been taught that the mind grows as a person grows to adulthood. While Morrigan’s child might have the full knowledge of the Old God, it wouldn’t be able to process it right away. Most likely, not until adolescence at least. Even more likely, the child would be a mage. Malcolm couldn’t imagine Morrigan not having any child that wasn’t a mage. She was, he figured, too powerful for that characteristic to not be passed on. A child, he thought again. A child that he and every person he knew wanted dead. A child that could’ve been his had he loved her more.

But what was it that Alistair had told him? He’d loved her too much and that was why he’d said no. In order to protect her, he’d hurt her, and hurt him. If she’d even actually been hurt and it all hadn’t been manipulation on her part. Maker help him, he’d _loved_ her. He’d ignored the warnings from others, told Eamon to sod off too many times to count, and kept loving her. Yet, in the end, she’d tried to use that against him and thrown it in his face. And then he’d learned of her final betrayal, of going to one of his best friends and sleeping with him to gain her Old God child. Because that was what had mattered to her and that was it. Not him. Not his heart. Certainly not how he truly felt. 

“You loved her, didn’t you?” a voice asked quietly.

Malcolm blinked, trying to chase away his thoughts, and he turned to regard Fiona. She was settling down in the grass near him. Not next to him, he noted, but not across from him either. He didn’t bother asking her how she knew he was thinking of her. The fact that he was studying the ring was answer enough. “Yes.” He frowned at the ring the witch had given him, not out of sentiment, but of necessity. And to think, he’d thought it sentiment. “At least, I thought I did.” He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t clamming up with Fiona, but he didn’t fight it. He was too tired and he really had no one else to talk to. Fergus and Alistair were still too torn from what they’d lost in the Blight and Líadan was... Líadan. A confounding enigma to him, who would probably lose her temper at even the merest mention of Morrigan. 

“You did.”

He looked away from the ring and at Fiona. “How can you be so sure?”

Her smile was warm and her eyes drifted towards the flames. “Because you say you did. You felt it. Líadan told me some of what went on between you and Arl Eamon over Morrigan. You chose the hard path over and over again rather than just give up. That speaks of a man in love, I think, considering the lengths you went to. And even if what happened on her end was trickery and manipulation, it doesn’t change the truth of your feelings.”

“What do you mean?”

Her eyes moved from the fire to him as she considered her words. “Take, for instance, a nightmare. What you experience in the Fade isn’t real, we all know that. However, what you feel when you wake up, the terror and horror and pain, all of that is real. Those are real emotions. Real feelings. Just because what caused those feelings was pretend doesn’t make the feelings any less true. I think the same goes for what happened with you and Morrigan. I don’t claim to know how Morrigan felt, if she tricked you or perhaps she fell into her own trap and did end up falling in love with you, but I believe I know how you felt from how you act and what you’ve said.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “It doesn’t change anything, though. My feelings allowed me to be manipulated by her and look where it’s gotten us.”

“You weren’t manipulated, that’s the thing. _Zevran_ was manipulated. She used his feelings of needing to save his friends against him to get what she wanted. From what you said happened in the final battle, it seemed he even knew he’d been manipulated. Since he was a Crow before he was a Warden, I suspect he knew exactly what manipulation looked like. And the guilt at what he’d done ate at him, and even though he knew his friends would live, he chose death because he couldn’t face them, and the consequences of his actions. But you refused her. Even as strongly as you felt about her, you refused her offer because you were able to see what negative things could happen as a result of going through her ritual. That was not the reaction of a man who’d been manipulated.”

“But I didn’t kill her.”

To his surprise, Fiona laughed chuckled softly. “Of course you didn’t. You’re human. I would be worried if you _had_ been able to kill her then. There’s only so much logic a person can follow before they become inhuman. She’d just emotionally gutted you. The fact that you withstood that long enough to refuse her is something to be commended. Pay no attention to Astrid’s condemnation. Even Marius took back his opinion on you killing Morrigan right away, though never quite to your face, which he should have, in retrospect. He didn’t quite recognize how deeply to heart you’d taken their condemnation of your actions.” She sighed, a brief sorrow drifting through her eyes. “I should have mentioned it to him, because as soon as I met you, I knew exactly how you’d take it.”

“As soon as you met me when?” he asked. “At Weisshaupt weeks ago? Or when I was born?” Right at the moment he’d asked, he wanted to take the words back. Without thinking, he’d gone and brought up the question of her motherhood, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready for it. Actually, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be ready for it. 

The elf ceased her contemplation of the fire and turned toward her grown son. Fear coursed through her eyes, mirroring the fear in Malcolm’s eyes. For a moment, it seemed she would yet again gather herself and walk away, or that her son would do exactly the same thing. Instead, they both remained seated, the fire crackling to fill the silence between them. Finally, Fiona said, barely loudly enough to be heard over the fire, “When you were born, I suppose. But more so when you came to Weisshaupt. You resemble Maric a great deal, though that was no surprise. You even did as a babe. But once you started talking, in how you conducted yourself in the meetings, how you tried to use humor to lighten the mood, even in how you interact with Líadan, you reminded me more and more of him. It isn’t something you want to hear, I suspect. He was your natural father, but not the man who raised you, I know that. Just as I wasn’t the mother who raised you.”

His heart caught in his throat, but he asked the question anyway. “Did you care?” Well, he’d mostly asked the question. He’d substituted ‘care’ for ‘love,’ but it was close. “About me. About Alistair.” Then he asked plainly, “Did you love us?”

Her answer was instant and surprisingly resolute. “Yes. Without question.” When Malcolm remained quiet, Fiona continued, “You were both my sons. Of course I loved you. The hardest thing I’ve ever done was give up the two of you, but it had to be done. The Wardens were requiring me to give you away, and had I not brought you to Maric, I never would have heard about either of you ever again. Your father... Maric... wanted to acknowledge both of you, but I asked him not to. I wanted you to have better lives than either of us had. I grew up as an elf and a mage, and while I couldn’t tell then if either of you would be mages, since you both are human though you have an elven mother, you could at least escape the curse of being elven in these lands. And Maric grew up as an heir to a kingdom. While his upbringing wasn’t the norm for a prince, in the end, he was still a prince and still had to become king of Ferelden. And he hated it. All he wanted was to be a normal man living a normal life and instead, he gave everything to Ferelden. We didn’t want that for either of you. For a while, it seemed to be working, for the most part.”

“Eamon kind of dropped the ball with Alistair.” Again, anger at Isolde seared through him. Their natural mother had loved them, loved them enough to give them up so they could have a better life, and Isolde had ruined that chance for Alistair. She’d robbed him of the love a child needed as they grew up. Maker damn that woman. 

“That he did. When I heard, I actually petitioned the First Warden—it wasn’t Georg at the time, by the way—for me to take Alistair. The answer was no and they said no to my second petition after Alistair was sent to the Chantry.” The anger at the idea of a mage’s son becoming a templar surfaced again, hardening her tone. “That’s when I asked Duncan to conscript him if he could.” Then the anger faded, replaced by a slight smile. “But our plans did work when it came to you. Bryce and Eleanor Cousland were wonderful people and have my eternal gratitude. They loved you and raised you as their own, providing you with a life that neither I nor Maric ever had. And then... there was the Blight.”

“So you did love—”

Fiona held up a hand and shot to her feet, her eyes widening in alarm. “Darkspawn. A large troop of them, between ten and twenty miles away, and on the move.” Her brow furrowed in thought as she sought more detail. “East and slightly north, I believe.”

Northeast. “Highever.” And, to him, the distance of twenty miles might as well have been a thousand. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

“Castle Highever has stood since the Divine Age, when it was not an independent bannorn, but merely an outpost of the growing Bannorn of Amaranthine, in the days before Amaranthine became an arling itself. The outpost of Highever was originally held by the Elstan family, cousins of the Howes. In the Age of Towers, however, Bann Conobar Elstan was murdered by his wife, Flemeth, thus ending the bloodline. Conobar’s captain of the guard, Sarim Cousland, took the lands and title.

Highever became a teyrnir during the Black Age, when Haelia Cousland gathered the lords together under her banner to drive the werewolves out of their lands, earning herself the title of teyrna almost as an afterthought.”

—from _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

“There was once a tiny fishing village on the Waking Sea that was set upon by the Tevinter Imperium, which enslaved the villagers to be sold in the markets of Minrathous, leaving behind only the old and infirm. One of the captives was the child Andraste.”

—from _The Sermons of Justinia II_

“Calenhad was born in 5:20 Exalted as a third son of a Highever merchant on hard times.”

—from _The Legend of Calenhad_ by Brother Herren, Chantry scribe, 8:10 Blessed

**Malcolm**

For Malcolm, the ride to Highever after they quickly struck camp was fraught with more tension than the ride from Redcliffe to the capital city before the Battle of Denerim. They couldn’t push Líadan’s horse too much, as it carried twice what it normally did. Malcolm’s horse picked up on his nervousness and he ended up riding a little ahead, and then turning around and riding back to the others before turning around again to repeat the same process. His mind played images from the Fall of Highever, of flames licking at the walls, of screams reverberating on those walls. Of finding his sister-and-law and nephew dead, slain by the blades of Howe’s men, of finding his father dying from another Howe blade. He willed himself to believe that they would not arrive at Highever to find it fallen once again, that Fergus would not be dead because Malcolm had left him behind. 

“Fergus will be fine,” Líadan said from beside him. 

Malcolm looked over, surprised to find that at some point, Fiona had switched horses to sit with Mhairi. He supposed it was because the knight was a better rider than Líadan and could offer better speed and control. “How can you be so sure?”

“I’ve seen him fight darkspawn before in big, giant battles. A little warband like this will be nothing.”

“Not if they kill him in his bed while he sleeps.”

“These are _darkspawn_ ,” Líadan said, “not humans. Evil, yes, but they’re not so good at treachery. You have to be able to manipulate feelings other than pure rage for that sort of thing. I mean, the darkspawn aren’t exactly known for subtlety.” She frowned. “Are they?”

Despite the situation, he couldn’t help the half-smile that formed on his lips. “I think we would’ve heard about it by now.” Then he remembered the story Fiona had told in the First Warden’s study about the lengths the Architect had gone to in order to capture and convince the Grey Wardens. Perhaps treachery and subtlety were possible for darkspawn after all. Then again, the Architect had required aid from a human—First Enchanter Remille—in order to really manipulate the situation. And, if what Fiona had said was correct, the intelligent darkspawn now had a dwarf, Utha, at his side for help figuring out the more subtle aspects of human nature. If this Architect was the one behind the current attack on Highever, could it have found a way to get to Fergus while he slept peacefully in bed? Or maybe the darkspawn that attacked were normal darkspawn and had just attacked because it was part of their nature to rampage. 

He wouldn’t know until he got there and he desperately wanted to ride ahead. But he was in charge now and couldn’t just go off on his own. Damn the First Warden and damn Riordan, too, for giving him this responsibility. And damn himself, for agreeing to it without much of a protest first. They continued riding, Anders proving to be a solid horseman, though he’d escaped from the Tower often enough that learning to ride well had probably become a necessity. As Fiona had kept riding with Mhairi, the recruit kept pelting her with questions about the Wardens and Weisshaupt. At first the mage had answered with good humor and patience. As the minutes dragged to hours, the answers become short and to the point, and after Mhairi made one comment about glory in the Deep Roads, Malcolm had seen the a shadow of irritation cross the elf’s face. For a moment he felt a surge of triumph that her patience with the recruit’s enthusiasm wasn’t infallible, but it quickly passed when familiar landmarks started appearing on the roadside. The rocks where he and Duncan had stopped for a breather on their frantic flight from the burning castle. The tree where they’d found two sentries swinging from nooses and didn’t even have the time to cut them down. The stream where he’d washed his Bryce Cousland’s blood from his hands, wondering if the stains he saw in his mind would ever fade away.

Finally, they crested a rise in the road and caught their first sight of Highever Castle. Banners hung limply from its towers, but he saw no flames and no smoke and relief started to trickle its way into the river of worry that’d filled him. If the castle wasn’t on fire yet, there was some hope. A group of darkspawn milled at the castle’s front gate, watching and waiting as one ogre repeatedly charged at and hit the heavy wooden doors with a meaty shoulder. The Wardens dismounted and left the horses behind with Gunnar to guard them, or if it came to it, herd them to safety. Malcolm had everyone drop to their stomachs so they could better study the scene without giving themselves away more than possible. Any moment now, the darkspawn would realize they were there, thanks to the taint. One advantage they had was that the darkspawn would think there were only three of them when they actually had five. Other than that, there wasn’t much going for them. 

One of the darkspawn, a tall Alpha hurlock in black heavy chainmail, scarlet cloak over his shoulders, looked to be... giving orders? Malcolm blinked. “Is he giving orders?”

“Yes,” both the elves near him immediately replied. 

Then Líadan said, “To hit the gates harder, in case you’re wondering. Apparently they’ve been at it for hours and they’re a bunch of good-for-nothing chantryspawn.”

“I guess that explains why Alistair’s insults against them always work,” Malcolm said, and then told the others what he wanted them to do in the coming battle. Anders and Fiona would hang back, while he and Mhairi and Líadan would charge into the melee and try to get to the leader. It wasn’t a large group, around thirty or forty, and theoretically they should be able to handle it. And if they could capture the leader, it would send the other darkspawn into disarray. After seeing what’d happened once the archdemon had been put out of commission, Malcolm knew that making the darkspawn leaderless was nearly as good as killing them. 

As soon as the three melee fighters sprang to their feet and ran down the hill, the darkspawn noticed them. They turned almost as one, sensing the taint they shared as Wardens and darkspawn. There was a roar—and what Malcolm figured was an order from the Alpha—and all the darkspawn except the battering ram of an ogre ran for them. It felt odd to Malcolm to run into battle against darkspawn without Alistair at his side, without knowing that his brother would be at his back with his sword and shield, protecting his blind spots as he did the same for Alistair. Instead, he had a stranger at his side, a warrior, yes, but not yet a Warden, and one he’d barely seen fight. Líadan, he knew, but she would stay mostly at the edges of the fray, employing techniques that Leliana and Zevran had taught her, ones far better suited to her smaller, quicker stature.

At least the snap of magic around him was familiar. Anders’ spells felt like Wynne’s, in a way, and he wondered if the older mage had ever taught the escaped one. Since the man was a healer, and a good one at that, he would put coin on it that she had. And knowing what he did of Anders, he’d put even more coin on Anders not particularly being fond of Wynne. But Anders also proved very good at crowd control, something that Morrigan had excelled at, while neither Fiona nor Líadan had really learned. Hurlock after hurlock were paralyzed around him, allowing easy access to hack and slash only where needed and nothing more. But he was caught within the middle of the fray, stuck within a mass of paralyzed, petrified, and angry, moving darkspawn bodies. Mhairi did well at his side and they cut methodically through the crowd, Malcolm ignoring Mhairi’s insane battle cries about the Maker favoring them, and keeping any comments he had to himself. 

Once they’d gone through three-quarters of the darkspawn, the ogre gave up on his battering and swung around to face the Wardens, just as Líadan had chosen that moment to sneak up on it for a quick kill. Instead of leaping onto his back and dispatching him with a swift stab to the back of the neck, Líadan dodged to avoid the swipe of a huge fist. The first grab missed. The second one didn’t. Her eyes went wide in surprise. Not once during the Blight had she ever gotten caught by an ogre. Malcolm and Alistair had, plenty of times, but it was because they moved a bit more slowly than she did. Her superior speed had always given her the advantage over ogres and she’d used it more than once to tire them out. But this time, she’d been bested. She struggled within the ogre’s grasp, kicking, and even trying to bite, but the ogre paid no attention to her struggles.

He also didn’t try to kill her right away, which was what they usually did. Swipe, roar, crush—that was how King Cailan died, and how many ogres had tried to kill Alistair and Malcolm in the months that followed their older half-brother’s death. Instead, the ogre gazed at her curiously, and then looked over at the Alpha hurlock as if he were asking him what to do with this little, angry creature that he’d found.

Had Malcolm not been so panicked, he would’ve laughed. But seeing Líadan so close to death propelled him forward, through the darkspawn trying to stop him, and to the Alpha. 

On his part, the Alpha looked at the ogre and Líadan, and in a guttural voice, told the ogre to wait. Then he turned to Malcolm. “Be telling me where the witch is.”

“What?” Malcolm said, not sure if it was because of the question itself or the fact that a _darkspawn_ had asked a question. 

“I am the First, emissary of the Mother. We be seeking the witch. We be seeking... Morrigan.” Morrigan’s name came out slowly and uneasily from the darkspawn’s grinning mouth, as if real names were unfamiliar to him. “The Mother said you would be here. The Mother said the witch would be with you. Where is the witch?”

Malcolm stared at the Alpha, the First, whatever it was, unable to process what was happening.

“If you do not answer, we will kill the elf,” said the First, who then motioned to the ogre. In response, the ogre started squeezing his fist and Líadan along with it. 

Malcolm heard ribs crack and shouted for him to stop. “I don’t know where Morrigan is! No one does! Now let her go!”

“You will tell us where the witch is,” said the First. As the ogre continued to apply pressure, the color drained from Líadan’s face, and she her struggles ceased. When the First didn’t stop the ogre, the crushing continued. Malcolm heard bones grinding. Mercifully, after only a few more moments, Líadan passed out.

“Stop!” Malcolm shouted again, both at the ogre’s actions and the ridiculous grin the First had. Then, without thinking, he swept out with his sword and cut off the First’s head, his fear-driven actions deciding against diplomacy. The action brought a roar of outrage from the ogre, who dropped his unconscious prey to the ground with a thud. The ogre lumbered for the Warden who had killed its master. At the same, the darkspawn who remained alive ran away from the battlefield. Mhairi gave chase, while Fiona and Anders hit them with ranged magic even as they ran to where Malcolm and Líadan were. Help arrived in the form of arrows from the ramparts of the castle’s walls striking down each of the fleeing darkspawn. 

Then more arrows started raining down into the ogre’s back, at first minor irritations, and then the ogre’s ichor flowed freely in heavy streams down its back, puddling onto the dirt at its feet. When the ogre’s eyes flicked toward the archers in its irritation, Malcolm leapt, plunging his sword into the ogre’s heart. Before the darkspawn even hit the ground, Malcolm jumped off and ran to where Líadan’s body had been tossed.

Anders and Fiona had beat him there and were already casting spells on the fallen elf, exchanging few words as they manipulated the blue magical aura in order to heal her. Líadan  was alive, he knew that much from the very slight rise and fall of her chest. Malcolm stood over them and watched, feeling absolutely useless. He couldn’t heal her and he hadn’t been able to protect her in the battle. And then because he couldn’t answer a simple question, she’d nearly been crushed to death by an ogre. If he had never been involved with Morrigan, these darkspawn wouldn’t have come to Highever, and they wouldn’t be in this situation. The fact that Highever’s walls had withstood the attack gave him no solace. Even though he knew now that it was highly likely that Fergus was very much still alive, the fact that Líadan had almost been killed negated whatever peace the knowledge would’ve given him. And even though she wasn’t immediately dead, she could be crippled, or maimed, or end up dying anyway from her injuries in a really horribly slow manner.

And she’d yet to wake up, too. She should be awake and cursing and glaring and be rip-roaring mad at falling in battle like she’d done every other time she’d gotten knocked out. Even after the battle with the archdemon, she’d not been like this. Fear clawed at his throat that he would lose her and he couldn’t even begin to fathom why he felt this strongly about it.

Behind them, Highever’s gates cracked open. Malcolm turned at the sound, mind mostly still on Líadan but some of it curious. Soldiers emerged with Fergus in the lead, a smile lighting his face when he saw his brother alive. “Fergus!” Malcolm shouted.

“So my wayward brother returns,” Fergus said, grabbing him into a hug, and then stepping away after a hearty slap to the back. “Just in time for all the fun, I see.”

“It... talked,” Malcolm said.

Fergus raised a knowing eyebrow. “I take it you didn’t believe my report from before?”

“In all honesty, I thought you had a head injury we missed. But the other Wardens at Weisshaupt believed you, so we got sent back with a Senior Warden who’s seen a talking darkspawn before.” He motioned to where Fiona and Anders were still healing Líadan. “Fiona. She’s the elf healing over there.” Then the worry crept back, because Líadan still hadn’t sat up.

“Who got hurt? I couldn’t exactly see what was going on from the ramparts. The ogre’s back was blocking everything,” asked Fergus.

“Líadan,” Malcolm answered. 

“You know, I thought it was funny how she was the one who went after you,” Fergus started to tease, but he changed tactics when he saw how concerned his brother was. “She’s a fighter. She’ll be fine. It’d definitely take more than a mere ogre to kill her, anyway.”

Malcolm nodded listlessly, the back of his mind thinking of all the different things that needed to be done after a darkspawn battle, and his body moving to do none of them. Maker, if they had Joinings to do, they should collect some of the darkspawn blood. He had vials in his pack. The First Warden had given him another Joining kit, complete with some of the archdemon blood they’d brought back to Weisshaupt in ridiculous amounts with the cortège, so he could do Mhairi’s and Anders’ Joinings as soon as they wanted to. 

Fergus clapped him on the shoulder. “Go organize the cleanup. You need something to do, little brother. I’ll go introduce myself and see if they can be moved inside and if they need anything.” When Malcolm shot another hesitant glance toward the healers and the fallen Warden, Fergus said, “Go.”

With a sigh, Malcolm turned and went. He directed the Highever soldiers in stacking the darkspawn bodies onto the ogre so they could be burned in a single heap. Before he set them on fire, he quickly collected a few vials of darkspawn blood and squirreled them away in the box with the chalice, archdemon blood, and lyrium. Two were for Mhairi and Anders, and some extra in case something along the lines of what happened with Leliana ever happened again. Had Leliana chosen to undergo the Joining, she might have lived. She’d fought off the taint from that genlock’s bite wound for a decent amount of time. While he knew she would’ve rejected the Joining even as she was dying from the bite, he never wanted to be caught in that situation again, where he wouldn’t be able to save a life when it should be able to be saved. He snapped the lid shut and stuffed the box back in his pack. 

Then he grabbed the small bottle of the potion Riordan had given him and Alistair and Zevran during the Blight, and set the pile of bodies aflame. His body ached with tiredness and bruises from battle, telling him that it should be far later than midday. As he’d worked with the soldiers to clean up from the battle, Fergus and other soldiers and servants had helped the two mages inside with their patient. Mhairi had gone back to where the horses were, and with the help of some soldiers and Gunnar, brought all of them back and inside the castle’s walls. Malcolm instructed three soldiers to watch the fire until it burned out and the darkspawn were nothing but ash before leaving it. Then he walked inside the castle he’d run from months ago.

A soldier waited for him just inside the gate with instructions to bring him to Fergus as soon as he came into the castle. Malcolm followed the nervous young woman through the castle, trying to keep himself from rolling his eyes at being led through the place where he’d grown up. If they would just tell him where his brother was, he could have easily have found it himself. Before long, they’d arrived at the guest quarters, where Fergus waited outside one of the rooms, arms folded across his chest. Brother delivered, the soldier saluted and trotted away. 

“They’re still working on her,” Fergus answered Malcolm’s unasked question before Malcolm even realized he was going to ask it. “Who’s the other mage? The tall one, I mean.”

Malcolm’s eyes briefly flicked toward the door before returning to his brother. “Anders. We... picked him up yesterday from some templars.”

Fergus raised an eyebrow. “Picked him up?” Then he grinned. “Plucked him out of their clutches, more like. I’d heard some templars had picked up an apostate in the city a few days ago. I’m guessing that’s him. I’m really starting to think you have a soft spot for mages, you know.” When Malcolm frowned, Fergus waved away the mood. “I’m kidding. Though, I do wonder, why did you take him from those templars?”

“Because they were stupid,” said Malcolm, who then repeated the story about Anders’s recruitment. “So they stalked their way to West Hill after that,” he finished minutes later. “Speaking of conscription, where are Riordan and Alistair?”

“Riordan went back to Denerim to sort out what and who need to be moved to Vigil’s Keep. Alistair went with him because Eamon had told our king that ‘He needed to stop playing Grey Warden and attend to ruling his kingdom.’”

Malcolm laughed out loud, both at the words and how Fergus said them, a dead-on imitation of the cranky arl. “What’d Alistair have to say to that?”

“Let’s just say that if you or I had ever repeated the words he said in front of our mother, she would have washed our mouths out with soap,” Fergus replied with a laugh of his own threatening to bubble over. “But, for all he was annoyed about it, he did go back. He’s doing pretty well so far at the king thing and has been studying history and governance, to boot. I have to give him a lot of credit for that and I think most of the Bannorn are doing the same. They have been asking after you, though.”

“Me?”

Fergus rolled his eyes. “They did declare you a prince of Ferelden. And I think they assumed, as much as Alistair did, that you’d be helping him.” He held up his hands as Malcolm protested the guilt trip. “I know, I know. You had things to attend to. No one is angry. We do understand, you know. As much as we can, anyway, since we aren’t you. But, like it or not, the people care about you as much as they do Alistair, and it’s starting to look like people care about you and Alistair as much as they did Maric and Loghain. Well, Loghain before the whole ‘quit the battlefield and let my best friend’s son die in the hands of the horrible darkspawn’ incident. Oh, and speaking of the nobility liking you and Alistair, your orders from Riordan are to go and finish securing Vigil’s Keep and finish the assessment of the Arling of Amaranthine. Riordan, and I think Alistair, said they were going to join you there in about a week’s time. Right now, they’ve got Arl Howe’s former seneschal there helping to run things.”

“Howe’s seneschal?” Malcolm frowned. “We shouldn’t keep any of Howe’s old staff on hand. Not if we’d like to walk around without waiting for a knife to stab us in the back.”

“That’s what you’d think,” Fergus replied with a grin. “But, this is his _former_ seneschal. You know, the one he fired for being a nice guy. Well, I know he made up some crap answer for it that no one believed, but we all knew he fired the guy for not being a yes-man.” The grin faded and the same haunted emotions that troubled Malcolm spread over Fergus’s face. “It came out later, after the Blight, that Seneschal Varel had actually saved many people from Howe’s atrocities. The man knows the Vigil and the arling, so it made sense to reinstate him. Basically, Varel’s a good man, which is why Howe fired him. Shows what he knew.”

Malcolm’s childhood education in the art of ruling and politics slowly came back to him as his thoughts turned to what would need to be done with Amaranthine. “What’s the situation like in the arling?” he asked. “I know Amaranthine has banns sworn to it and I wasn’t close enough to the situation at the end of the Blight to know how many of those banns were loyal to Howe because they wanted to be, or because they feared reprisals if they weren’t.”

“I’m not sure.” Fergus dropped to sit on a bench outside the guest room and motioned for Malcolm to sit next to him. “I think that’s something you and Riordan will have to figure out in the coming weeks. You’ll have to hold court soon to meet the nobles and you’ll be able to tell a lot from there, I’m sure you know. Riordan, as Warden Commander, will still be arl in name, but you’ll be helping him a lot. Hopefully that will be acceptable to the banns. I still don’t see what the problem is with Riordan. The man’s from Highever even if he has an Orlesian accent from being out of the country for so long.”

“You realize that everyone was born in Highever, right?” Malcolm asked, thinking back, removing his gauntlets and tucking them into his pack that he dropped next to the bench. “Riordan. Duncan, apparently. And we all know that even though people claim that Andraste was born in Denerim, we know that Denerim isn’t on the Waking Sea, it’s on the Amaranthine Ocean and that _Highever_ is on the Waking Sea. Just saying. Oh, and King Calenhad was born in Highever. And I bet Flemeth was, too, now that I think about it.”

“Flemeth?” Fergus repeated. “Oh, right, Morrigan’s mother. Highever _is_ a popular place.” Then he frowned. “Wait... are you talking about the Flemeth from the legend? The Flemeth that killed Bann Conobar and ended his bloodline and inadvertently gave Highever to the Couslands?”

“One in the same.”

Fergus sat back against the wall, processing the revelation. Then he suddenly sat up straight and looked at his brother again. “And you... with her... with her _daughter_? Are you insane? Maker’s breath, you’re lucky to be alive.”

Malcolm studied the wall across from him, traced the lines of mortar between the stones with his eyes. “Sometimes.” He thought of leaving their parents in the larder, and the thoughts of the larder making him remember the rats that had been there during the day. Blight rats. Ones that normally you only saw in the Korcari Wilds, all the way up in Highever, at the start of everything. There was a connection there. There had to be. He just had to find it. Maybe there was even a Deep Roads entrance around Highever that had been missed. It was possible. The network of dwarven roads was ridiculously large and mostly unmapped aside from the thaigs around Orzammar and under the Frostbacks. But there were places even along the northern coast where people never traveled. The mountains just east of Highever, for instance. Drake’s Fall, if he correctly remembered what Brother Aldous had called them. Inhospitable, with nastier weather than the Frostbacks, and no life to speak of in its harsh climate. No one ever went up there, so there could easily be an entrance within those hills that hadn’t been noticed before. He held back a sigh. Another thing they’d have to investigate once they finished setting up the Keep. “Why did you give Amaranthine to the Wardens?” Malcolm asked Fergus. 

He shrugged. “I thought I was being nice. I didn’t really think of the implications until later, and by then, it was too late. Don’t worry. Eamon already tried to yell at me, but didn’t do very well at it. I mean, you can tell he _wanted_ to, but since I’m a teyrn and he doesn’t know me like he knows you and Alistair, he can’t really yell at me as properly as he’d like. Alistair thinks that’s unfair, by the way, because he technically outranks me, yet he gets yelled at by Eamon all the time.”

The door next to them opened and the two mages stepped out, shutting the door quietly behind them. Both Fergus and Malcolm were instantly on their feet, expectant looks on the exhausted mages.

“She’ll be fine,” said Fiona, her gaze only briefly flitting to Fergus before settling on Malcolm. “She’s asleep now and will wake up at any time, probably spitting mad that she got injured.” Malcolm released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and Fiona gave him a curious look before a hint of understanding crept into her eyes. “You can go see her if you want.”

“If it’s all right, is there a bed I could nap on myself?” Anders asked.

“Certainly,” said Fergus. “I’ll show you to a room.” He glanced at Fiona. “What about you?”

“I would be eternally grateful for a place to sleep,” the elf replied.

Fergus considered his answer for a moment, a tiny grin on forming on his mouth. “I suppose the eternal gratitude of a mage is a fine thing to have,” he finally said, grin becoming a full smile. “Come on, this way.” Then he was walking forward and motioning for the two mages to follow him. 

Anders fell in at his side, but Fiona hung back for a moment. She studied Malcolm intently, as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t decide if she should say it. Finally, she just reached out and touched his arm briefly and gently before turning and walking away. Malcolm stared after her for a moment, wondering what that was all about. Once the small group turned a corner and left his sight, he turned himself and slipped into the guest room.

At some point they’d removed Líadan’s armor and replaced it with some sort of light linen... something, but that was mostly covered by the quilt they’d drawn up to her shoulders. Malcolm settled into a chair between the windows and the bed. In her sleep, the elf looked younger than she ever did awake. Gone were the scowls and frowns or even the mischievous glint she got in her eye so very often, replaced by a serenity he’d never seen in her during her waking hours. She slept silently, without a sound at all, the only indication that she was alive being the rise and fall of her now mercifully uncrushed chest. And, somehow, she looked smaller than usual. He supposed part of it was that she wasn’t wearing armor, but he figured most of it had to do with her presence. Asleep, she presented none of the confidence and charisma and competence that she did when she was awake and ever the fierce Dalish warrior mage. Instead, she seemed just as any other when asleep—a person. And, something in him reminded him, a woman.

The light shining through the window shifted as a cloud moved across the sun. The light’s movement drew Malcolm’s attention to a hank of auburn hair that had fallen across Líadan’s forehead, and part of him wanted to reach out and tuck it behind her ear. Another part of him informed him that it would be a horrible, awful, and _frighteningly stupid_ thing to do. If she woke up and caught him, she’d kill him without even asking what he thought he was doing. And he wasn’t even sure why he felt compelled to do so. Most likely, it had to do with how he’d reacted to her being injured, a reaction he’d never thought he’d associate with her. It was a reaction with a level of frantic more in line with the possibility of one of his brothers being injured. Or, before, during the Blight, if Morrigan had been injured.

But Líadan wasn’t Morrigan.

He felt the smile playing on his lips at the memory of him saying that to a very confused elf when he was in a half-drunken stupor after that state dinner and fending off that stupid princess. Of course, he’d passed out immediately after and still didn’t quite know what he’d meant when he said it. Weeks had gone by since then and he still had no idea—though from the looks Fiona had been giving him, apparently _she_ somehow had some idea—of what was going on. 

Malcolm sighed quietly, not wanting to wake her up. Then his hand snaked out of its own accord, seeking to confirm that Líadan was alive and well. His fingers gently tucked the hair back behind her elegantly pointed ear, and just before he removed his fingertips from Líadan’s head, her eyes opened.

He froze. 

_I am a dead man._


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

“It is said that the Maker smiled on the world at the Battle of Valarian Fields, in which the forces of Maferath challenged and defeated the greatest army Tevinter could muster. The southern reaches of the mighty Imperium now lay at the mercy of the barbarians. Faith in the Maker, bolstered by such miracles, threatened to shake the foundations of the Imperium apart.

Of course, the human heart is more powerful than the blackest weapon, and when wounded, it is capable of the blackest of deeds.”

—from _Tales of the Destruction of Thedas_ by Brother Genitivi, Chantry scholar

**Malcolm**

“I—” he got out, before he found himself flung across the room by a jolt of lightning, his back smacking solidly against the smooth stone wall before he slid to the floor.  “It’s just me,” he mumbled as the figure of an angry woman leapt from the bed to loom threateningly above him.

Fergus, followed by Anders and Fiona, drawn by the sound of the commotion, burst into the room. On seeing the elf glaring furiously down at Malcolm, Fergus burst into uproarious laughter, drawing Líadan’s ire from Malcolm to him. Anders started chuckling, and even Fiona cracked a smile as she ushered her fellow elf away from the thoroughly trounced young warrior. 

“What did you _do_?” Fergus finally asked after gulping back some laughs.

“Nothing,” Malcolm said.

“Fiona said you could look in on her, not piss her off,” Fergus said, helping him to his feet. “You must have done something. Did you tease her, thinking she wouldn’t hear you?”

“No.” He wondered if he looked as miserable as he felt. Damn his stupidity. He’d known better. Líadan was the prickliest person he’d ever met, and he’d gone and tempted fate and had been zapped for it. Deservedly so. She’d probably have reacted better if he’d punched her or something, not been nice to her. Or whatever it was that he did. Caring gesture and all that. Things he hadn’t done with anyone except Morrigan and that sort of behavior certainly had no place between him and Líadan. Did it? Maker, _why_ had he done that? Why?

Fergus exchanged a look with Fiona, and then pulled Malcolm out of the room. “Come on, little brother. I forgot to tell you earlier, the Grey Wardens that stopped by a few days ago brought someone I need you to talk to, because I haven’t been able to.”

Malcolm frowned, the pain of having been shocked by a mage receding. “What?”

For a few minutes, as they walked through the corridors of the castle, Fergus said nothing. Once they reached the top of the stairs that Malcolm recognized as the ones leading to the rarely used dungeon, Fergus said, “A week or so ago, a possible assassin was caught by the Orlesian Wardens who were at Vigil’s Keep trying to get the place ready. It took four of them to take the man down and he dealt a couple of the Wardens some decent injuries in the process. Anyway, because their dungeon was out of commission since a disgruntled employee destroyed it in celebration when he’d heard of Arl Howe’s execution, they brought the man here to await sentencing from the teyrn. You know, me. Except I could barely think about him, let alone talk to him, when I found out who the man was.”

They stopped outside the entrance to the dungeon. Malcolm glanced at the door, and then back at his brother. “Who is it?”

Fergus turned the key then pushed open the door, revealing two guards inside, one sitting at a desk looking mildly bored, and another standing at the end of the line of cells. The prisoner, dressed in plain clothing and wearing a brooding look, sat on the dirt floor of the first cell. When the two brothers walked in, the man rose slowly to his feet, the brooding changing to barely restrained anger. Malcolm knew exactly why. “Nathaniel Howe,” he said out loud, partly in recognition, and partly in greeting. Then he walked to the cell and studied the man behind the bars while Nathaniel studied him in return. Fergus slipped back out the main door.

Nathaniel spoke first, saying over-dramatically, “If it isn’t the great hero, conquerer of the Blight, prince of Ferelden, and vanquisher of all evil.” He raised a dark eyebrow. “Aren’t you supposed to be ten feet tall with lightning bolts shooting out of your eyes?” 

Malcolm resisted the urge to politely ask the man to never speak of lightning ever again. Instead, he lightly said, “I don’t know. Oghren once said that I was stout and muscular, fair of face but with a strong jaw and a bold nose, surrounded by a glowing nimbus, eyes shining with the light of purity and my large but chaste bosom heaving magnificently.” He paused. “Wait, no, the bosom part wasn’t about me. At least, I don’t think it was.” He frowned down at his chest, and then looked at the prisoner again. “Why do you mention it?”

The other man shrugged. “Somehow, I just thought that my father’s murderer would be... more impressive. My family owned Vigil’s Keep and Amaranthine until you showed up. Do you remember any of that at all? Or do you even remember my father?”

Before Howe brought up his father, Malcolm had been willing to play nice. To find out why Nathaniel had been poking around Vigil’s Keep, to think that perhaps the whole assassin bit was a misunderstanding. Both he and Fergus had known Nathaniel when they were children and he hadn’t been a bad sort. Despite his father being Rendon Howe and his older brother being Thomas Howe, Nathaniel had always been decent and escaped the particular mean streak that tended to run in the Howe family. But if the man was actually asking if Malcolm could remember Rendon Howe, perhaps Nathaniel had just come into that mean streak later in his life. Yes, forget diplomacy. Malcolm wasn’t in the mood for it any longer. He’d done something stupid fifteen minutes ago and his muscles still hurt from the punishment he’d gotten for it. To top it off, his mind hurt even more at the notion that he might’ve somehow irrevocably driven away one of his closest friends. And this man had just reminded him of the Fall of Highever and everything he had lost that night. It reminded him of what he’d been forced to do in order to survive. “Every day,” Malcolm finally said, “I _wish_ I could forget him.”

Nathaniel’s lips twisted into a sneer at Malcolm’s answer and he began to pace the confines of his cell. “My father served the Hero of River Dane and fought against the Orlesians, you know. Yet my family lost everything.”

“ _Your_ family lost everything?” Malcolm said. “ _They_ didn’t lose their lives because of what your father did. But my family did. He killed my parents, he killed my sister-in-law, and he even killed my little nephew in their own home, where they were supposed to be safe. Where your father was a welcome guest and a trusted friend of my father. And you stand here and accuse me of being a murderer? Your father was the murderer and it was justice that killed him in the full light of day in front of hundreds of witnesses. He wasn’t killed in the dark of night through treachery.” Feeling his anger reeling out of control, Malcolm clamped down on it as best he could so he could find out the facts behind Nathaniel’s confinement. “Why were you at the Vigil?”

“I...” Nathaniel hesitated, as if he feared what vengeance his answer might bring from Malcolm. Then he took a deep breath and continued, “I went there... I thought I was going to try to kill you, to lay a trap for you, but you weren’t there yet and I couldn’t find out when you would be. Then I realized I just wanted to reclaim some of my family’s things. It’s all I have left.”

“You have your life, which is more than my nephew has.”

“Considering that I just admitted to treason by planning to kill the heir to the throne, my life is pretty much forfeit,” Nathaniel replied.

The man had a point, Malcolm realized, wondering if there was anything worth saving about him. The anger boiling within him told him to just have the man executed, but he had to be better than that. Or do better than that. One of the two. “Just how much do you know about your father?”

Nathaniel shrugged. “If you’re asking whether or not I knew what he was up to, the answer is no. I was squired in the Free Marches, both you and Fergus know that. Or should know that, if you’d forgotten. Look, I don’t know exactly what happened that night with him and your family. It sounds like it was horrible. The entire war was. Whatever my father did, however, shouldn’t harm my whole family. The Howes are pariahs now, those of us left. It’s all thanks to you and your family. And now you and your family get to decide my fate. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“It was your father who decided on my fate,” Malcolm said, thinking of what had happened that night, how Bryce never would have let him become a Grey Warden until his hand had been forced. And it hadn’t been Duncan who’d forced it, not really. It’d been Howe and his attack. If he hadn’t had attacked, he wouldn’t have been conscripted. Ser Gilmore would’ve joined the Wardens at Duncan’s invitation, and who knows where Malcolm would be right now. Most likely not standing here in front of this cell and talking to Nathaniel Howe.

The main door to the dungeon clanged open and Fergus came back through, stepping quickly to stand near Malcolm. “What do you think?” he asked.

Malcolm glanced from Fergus and back to Nathaniel, considering the qualities in the other man. It’d taken four Grey Wardens to take him down at the Vigil. He’d admitted to conspiring to kill Malcolm in front of two witnesses. He could have him executed and no one would question that decision. From the look in the man’s eye, execution was exactly what he wanted. He would escape whatever fate he had left to him as a Howe and he would, in his own eyes, be a martyr, wronged because of who he was and not how he’d acted. Did he want Nathaniel to get what he wanted out of life when Nathaniel’s father had forced the Grey Wardens on Malcolm? Part of him wanted Nathaniel to suffer what he had, to have all rights to decide the course of his life taken away from him and be put on a path not of his choosing. The other part of him knew that they needed Grey Wardens and Nathaniel had the skills of one. And in the end, maybe it didn’t matter which reason was the real one for what he was about to do. Malcolm looked back at Fergus. “I wish to invoke the Right of Conscription,” he said, keeping his tone even. 

“You _what_?” Nathaniel said from his cell. Malcolm wondered if he’d sounded that outraged in the larder, when Duncan had offered him a place in the Wardens. 

Fergus blinked. “I’m sorry, what did you say? I swear I just heard you say you wanted to make the son of our family’s murderer a Grey Warden.”

“Yes, I did say that.” He caught his brother’s eye, communicating to him that he’d tell him why later, when no one else could hear them. Then Malcolm glanced over at the indignant prisoner. “You will join the Grey Wardens.”

“No! Absolutely not! Hang me first!” Nathaniel shouted. 

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “Did I say I was giving you a choice?” _After all,_ I _was never given one_ , he thought. 

Nathaniel opened his mouth to protest again, and then shrugged instead. “I can’t decide if this is a vote of confidence or a punishment.”

“Think of it as both,” Malcolm replied. “I’ll come get you once everything is ready for the Joining. Until then, you’ll stay here. Let the guards know if you need anything.” Then he spun on his heel and strode out the door, not sure if he wanted Nathaniel to become a Warden and have to live life that way, or to die in the Joining.

Fergus fell into step next to him, holding his questions at bay as they walked through the corridors. Malcolm walked distractedly, not quite paying attention to where he was going. Fergus noticed and took the lead, bringing them to a study. It had been Bryce’s study, Malcolm realized. The teyrn’s study. Figures that they would end up here. 

“Why?” Fergus asked as soon as he shut the door. “He admitted to planning on killing you. Beyond that, he is Rendon Howe’s son. I can understand wanting to shed less blood and allowing him to live. But why, in the name of the Maker, would you want to grant him the honor of being a Grey Warden?”

Malcolm sat heavily in the chair in front of the desk, the same chair he’d sat in the night of the Fall, waiting for the lecture that never came because his foster father had already been bleeding out from a wicked dagger wound to the gut. Only he hadn’t known it at the time. That particular realization had come later, right around the time he’d been informed that he’d become a Grey Warden, like it or not. “It isn’t an honor,” he said.

Fergus frowned as he settled into his chair, obviously not believing his brother. “This coming from the man who wanted nothing more than to become a Grey Warden when Duncan had been visiting? I haven’t forgotten the conversation we had before I left, you know. You certainly seemed to think it was an honor then.”

“That was before I was conscripted,” Malcolm said.

“You were... what? Wait, against your will or against Father’s?”

“Against mine. Father wanted it to happen.” Then Malcolm realized that one of the conversations he’d been fearing since after Ostagar was about to take place. It had been so long since he’d felt those insecurities that he’d forgotten the fear, and now it rose up and slapped him in the face. Líadan was already beyond angry at him and now his brother was about to be supremely disappointed in him. Really, it was turning out to be a rather fantastic day.

Fergus rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Stop dancing around the story and just tell me what damn well happened, Malcolm.”

He slumped in his chair and, as he stared at his hands in his lap, told his foster brother how he’d come to be a Grey Warden. When he’d finished, he kept silent and didn’t look up, not willing to look Fergus in the eye, waiting for the disapproval. 

But it never came.

“You really can be a stubborn bastard, can’t you?” Fergus said, no disgust in his voice, only amusement. 

Malcolm’s head snapped up. “What?”

The grin he’d heard in Fergus’s tone spread across his brother’s face. “You’re just stubborn. I think, had you acted any differently, Father would’ve thought something was wrong. But, now I can see why you conscripted Nathaniel, maybe. Could be a couple things. For one, if you hadn’t, I would’ve had to send him to Denerim and Alistair would’ve either done the same or would have to have had him executed. I think, in the end, Rendon Howe has caused enough death.” He paused, and then asked, “Is that why you conscripted him? Or is it because you want him to suffer as you believe you have?”

“The Joining can be fatal,” Malcolm replied, not even bothered that he’d mentioned a possible Grey Warden secret.

“Stop deflecting. That wasn’t an answer to my question. If you really wanted him to die, you’d have left him to be sent to Fort Drakon and the king’s justice. And both of us could see that Nathaniel would rather die than carry on this way, pariah that he is because he’s a Howe. No, you either wanted to save his life, or you wanted to get even. Which is it?”

Malcolm went to answer, but found that he couldn’t. He honestly didn’t know which it was. Could it be both at the same time? Perhaps. Or he was just a total bastard who wanted to inflict the taint and its death sentence on someone else because their father had done basically the same thing to him. “I don’t know,” he said quietly.

“You’ll have to figure that out eventually,” Fergus replied. “But I think Riordan will agree with the conscription itself, whatever the reason behind it. The Wardens need Fereldans, even if they’re pariahs. And, well, as I said, enough people have died. And since it took four Wardens to bring him in, he’ll probably be of some use. Apparently he learned a lot while he was in the Free Marches. And maybe he’ll end up being the sort of man he’d shown signs of becoming when he was a kid. You know, a decent guy, and nothing at all like his father.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Come on, it’s time for dinner. And don’t tell me you aren’t hungry. Aside from traveling with Grey Wardens for many weeks during the Blight, I’ve had quite a few stay here since. I know how you all eat. Even the women.” He pulled Malcolm up and out of his chair. “Speaking of women, what happened earlier with Líadan?”

“I surprised her. Life lesson learned. Never surprise a Dalish elf who also happens to be a mage and a warrior. Bad idea.”

“Looked pretty painful.”

“Did it? I seem to recall you laughing your ass off, not wincing in sympathy at my pain.”

Fergus smiled again at the memory, a short chuckle rumbling in his chest. “And how did you surprise her?”

“I touched her hair,” Malcolm mumbled.

They swung out into a larger corridor, getting closer to the dining hall. “What was that? I didn’t quite hear you.”

He rolled his eyes, knowing that he was being teased and hating every moment of it. “She had a bit of hair on her face. I tucked it behind her ear. My hand was still touching her head when she woke up.”

Fergus snorted. 

Malcolm said forlornly, “I don’t even know why I did it.”

“I do,” Fergus said, sounding gleeful, and then he opened the door to the dining hall, leaving Malcolm to glower in reply instead getting even with a nasty retort. 

After a moment of gaping after him, Malcolm followed. The rest of the people who’d traveled with him were already there, tucking away into their food. Anders and Mhairi gave quick waves and went back to chatting, while Fiona offered him a small, reassuring smile. Next to her, Líadan looked up at him, rolled her eyes, and went back to her food. It reminded him of those first weeks she’d become part of their group, just after her conscription during the Blight. 

When he’d been absolutely convinced that she hated him.

So they were back to that, it seemed. He felt like crawling into bed and pretending the day had never happened. That would be awesome if it worked, and then when he woke up, he’d have his best friend or whatever she was to him back. That would also be awesome. Of course, that wasn’t going to happen, and now he’d have to endure whatever withering glares she’d be giving him for the next several days, if not weeks. Fantastic. Fergus, because he was a jerk of an older brother, made him sit across from Líadan. Malcolm ignored her, and everyone else, as best he could, just wanting the day to be over, and over soon. 

Near the end of the meal, one of the servants rushed into the room and over to Fergus. “My lord,” the young elf said quietly, “there are four templars waiting to see you in the main hall.”

Fergus’s eyes narrowed and he slid a look over to Malcolm. “This is your doing. I’m going to go out into that hall and they’re going to accuse me of harboring an apostate and ask me to intervene on the Chantry’s behalf so you Grey Wardens don’t get to keep Anders.”

The mage’s head popped up from his conversation. “Anders, what?”

“Templars,” Malcolm said.

“Bastards,” said Anders.

Fergus threw a friendly arm around Malcolm’s shoulders. “Aw, not all bastards are that bad.”

Líadan snorted in derision and Fergus laughed. 

Malcolm ignored them. “Don’t worry, Anders, you’re staying with us. The Chantry can’t override the Right of Conscription, as much as they’d like to. If they could, our current king wouldn’t even be a Warden. Instead, he’d be a templar, and a really bad one at that. Luckily, he makes a really good Warden, so it all worked out in the end. For us, anyway. Not so much the Chanty, but they can...” he trailed off, realizing his audience was larger than just a few close companions, and he should keep his more strongly worded opinions of the Chantry to himself. “Learn to live with it,” he finished. 

“I’ll come with you to meet with them, regardless,” Anders said. “I can at least face them as they call for my head on a pike.”

As they walked out, Fergus following close behind with Fiona, Líadan, and Mhairi, Malcolm said, “I could’ve sworn that Ser Rylock was insisting she wanted to see you hanged.”

“I suppose they could hang me, and _then_ cut off my head.”

“Which seems harsh, considering you aren’t even a maleficar.” 

Anders grimaced. “When you put it that way, their current vendetta does seem to be a bit harsh, doesn’t it?”

“At times, the Chantry’s blindness knows no light,” Malcolm replied, trying not to sound as irritated as he felt. Not only had they already told these templars that they had conscripted Anders, but they were trying to stop the conscription again, anyway. 

“That was kind of dark, even for you,” Fergus said quietly to Malcolm.

He shrugged. “They put me in a mood, I guess.”

The door swung open to reveal that there were indeed four templars standing in the main hall of Highever Castle. Only one of them had removed her helm—Ser Rylock. The others glowered out from under their tin-can looking helmets. So they were apparently determined to be rude, as well. Malcolm exchanged a look with Fergus and saw his brother felt the same way, and looked to be getting irritated, too. Perhaps not as deeply as him, but he hadn’t been at the first confrontation and watched these idiots ignore darkspawn to argue over something trivial when compared to life or death.

“Teyrn Fergus Cousland of Highever,” the servant who had rushed ahead of them announced.

“Your lordship,” said Ser Rylock, giving Fergus a slight bow. A better bow than he’d gotten the day before, Malcolm noticed. “My name is Ser Rylock, and the man behind you is a dangerous apostate and murderer.”

Fergus held Rylock’s gaze for a moment, and then nodded his head to indicate the other three templars. “And do your men normally leave their helms on when a guest in a lord’s hall? Or are you expecting a fight?”

Rylock blinked in surprise at Fergus’s bluntness, and then nodded an order to her men to remove their helms. They did, looking cranky at being forced to do so. Malcolm didn’t care. He was cranky and they could be, too. “No, my lord, we are not expecting a fight,” said Rylock. “But the Chantry does expect that you will hand the apostate over to us for justice. He is, as I said, a murderer.”

The teyrn pursed his lips for a moment in thought, and then turned to Anders and asked mildly, “You didn’t happen to kill anyone, did you, Anders?”

“I believe I killed some darkspawn out along the road before we got here,” the mage answered.

Fergus returned his gaze to Rylock. “I should hope that killing darkspawn has not become a crime to the Chantry, Ser Rylock?”

“He murdered a templar, your lordship. He is not telling you of his true crime because he is guilty.”

“Or because he answered my question directly,” Fergus said. Malcolm recognized in the tone of his brother’s voice that he was resisting the urge to roll his eyes. The teyrn glanced at his younger brother. “Did this man kill a templar?”

“No. The darkspawn killed the templar. I witnessed it, as did Ser Mhairi, Senior Warden Fiona, and Warden Líadan.” It took all of Malcolm’s training from childhood to keep himself from looking smug.

Fergus lifted a brow at the testimony and returned his look to Rylock. “Four witnesses say that this mage did not commit the murder you accuse him of, Ser Rylock. Have you more witnesses that say otherwise?”

“Two of the witnesses are mages!” Rylock cried. At the tone of her voice, Malcolm half expected the tall woman to stamp her foot.

“I thought they were Grey Wardens,” said Fergus. “Even if I would agree to disallow their testimony because they are mages—which I would _not_ agree to, by the way—that still leaves two witnesses who disagree with you. One of them is a Grey Warden recruit, and a former knight to King Alistair. The second, I might remind you, is not only a Grey Warden, but also King Alistair’s brother, and one of the Wardens who fought the archdemon in Denerim. Even if Malcolm here hadn’t been raised as my foster brother, I would still be inclined to believe him over you on those facts alone. However, since I believe in accepting testimony from people no matter what they’re born as, I do not think this mage is the murderer you seem so inclined to believe him to be. You will not be taking him with you, Ser Rylock. He has been conscripted by the Grey Wardens. Do not continue to pursue him. The law is not on your side in this matter.”

Rylock huffed as she searched for a valid argument, and resorted to glowering when she came up empty.

“As it’s getting dark,” Fergus continued, “you and your men are welcome to stay in the castle. There have been reports of darkspawn bands roaming about and my castle was already attacked once today. Also, if my experience from the Blight is anything to go by, the danger is much greater at night, so I offer you shelter here at Highever until it is safe to travel.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow at the offer and resisted a grin. How Fergus had handled the entire situation had reminded him strongly of Bryce Cousland. He would’ve been proud of his son had he been able to witness it. For a moment, Rylock looked as if to argue, and then she was struck by the inspiration of common sense, something that’d been sorely lacking in the templar previously, and nodded. A motion from Fergus to a servant, and the templars were shown out of the hall. Fergus dismissed himself from the others and departed to follow. Malcolm assumed it was to make sure the templars were put into rooms as far away from the Wardens and their recruits as possible, as well as to organize surveillance. That’s what he would’ve done, anyway, and Fergus was usually like-minded to him in things of that nature.

“Your foster brother isn’t a bad sort,” Anders said once Fergus had gone.

Malcolm nodded, eyes vaguely focused on the heavy doors. New ones, he noted, replacements for those destroyed during Howe’s attack on the castle. And these doors were more heavily reinforced, too. Good. “He’s a lot like his father.” Then he turned and looked at the others. “Anders, Mhairi, if you would excuse us, I need to talk to Fiona and Líadan about Warden matters.”

“Oh, and the infamous Grey Warden secrecy finally rears its head,” said Anders, clapping his hands together. “We’ll just wait outside. And we totally won’t be trying to listen in, either.”

Fiona rolled her eyes. “You can try all you want. I’ll just cast a ward and you won’t hear a thing.”

“I’m not sure how long the meeting will take, so you and Mhairi can go off and do whatever. Just stay on castle grounds,” Malcolm said to Anders. The two recruits exited the room, leaving Malcolm with Fiona and Líadan. He turned to them. “There’s a prisoner in the dungeon by the name of Nathaniel Howe,” he started, and then took a seat at one of the small tables they kept in the room for conferences. Fiona and Líadan took seats across from him. 

While Fiona looked puzzled, Líadan’s face twitched in recognition of the name. “Howe? Isn’t that the name of the—”

“Man who killed my entire foster family? Yes,” Malcolm finished for her. “Nathaniel is his younger son.” Then he told them how Nathaniel had come to end up as a prisoner at Highever Castle. “He admitted to planning on killing me in front of two guards, which means he admitted to treason. Since Nathaniel was squired for several years in the Free Marches and it took four Grey Wardens to capture him, I conscripted him instead of him being charged with and executed for treason.”

Líadan’s brows raced towards her hairline. “Two conscriptions in less than twenty-four hours?” she said, sitting back. “I believe you’ve now beaten Alistair’s record.”

“I am a conscripting _machine_ , I tell you,” Malcolm replied, relieved that some of their former lighthearted interaction had returned. Yet he knew that if she knew how conflicted he was about his real reasons for conscripting Nathaniel, she’d be either as angry or even more angry than she’d been with him after he’d killed Tamlen. It wasn’t the sort of anger he wanted to face. Ever. “Anyway, I collected a few vials of darkspawn blood after the skirmish today and I wanted to hold a Joining tonight.”

“I think that would be a good idea,” Fiona said, “especially given that I’m not sure the templars will give up on getting Anders, even now. It’s one thing if they take a conscript, but it’s entirely another if they attempt to take a fully Joined Grey Warden. I doubt they would dare to take him if he’s a full Warden.”

He nodded. “My thoughts exactly. The supplies are in my pack in that box Georg gave me, which I think is still outside Líadan’s room from where Fergus and I were talking earlier. If you’ll go grab that and start preparing the potion, I’ll go to the chapel and have emptied and secured.”

The three of them got up, and Líadan went to follow Fiona. But the older elf directed her to go with Malcolm. “I can get the supplies and you can get a head start casting wards for silence around the chapel,” she said in explanation when Líadan frowned at her. And then, entirely brushing off the continued frown from her fellow mage, Fiona strolled off in the direction of the guest quarters.

Malcolm narrowed his eyes after her. “I see what she did.”

“She’s as bad as Riordan,” said Líadan. When Malcolm didn’t answer and instead started walking toward the chapel, she scowled and followed him. After a moment of silence between them, filled only with echoing footsteps on cobblestones beneath, she asked, “So, what happened after I passed out, exactly? One second I was being crushed to death by the smelliest beast I’ve ever encountered, and the next, I wake up with you hovering around me, looking like you were touching my hair.”

“Sorry about that,” he muttered, wincing at the blush that rushed to his cheeks. “Don’t know what came over me. Won’t happen again, I assure you.”

“How about we pretend that never happened and not talk about that ever again?” she replied. “Just tell me what happened with that talking darkspawn and forget all the other, awkward parts.”

“Yes, let’s just ignore the fact that you hit me with lightning again.” Then he decided that he probably should let the matter drop and switched to the other subject. He really should be relieved and _not_ surprisingly disappointed at Líadan not wanting to address the whole him making a caring gesture and her zapping him for it moment. “Oh, and the talking darkspawn?” Malcolm said, trying to sound bright. “Him? He introduced himself. Surprisingly good manners in a darkspawn, I thought.”

“It talked, so you killed it?”

He raised his hands to fend off her ire. “In my defense, it kind of freaked me out. We spent a whole year fighting those things and not once did one of them say, ‘Hey, hold up, we can just talk this whole thing out.’ I think if they had, the whole Blight might’ve turned out differently. Oh, and it also asked where Morrigan was.”

She stopped in the middle of the corridor and faced him. “Really?”

“Would I joke about something like that?”

Líadan bit her lip, considering his words. “No. No, you wouldn’t. You never joke about Morrigan anymore, actually.”

He shrugged and continued walking toward the chapel, moroseness threatening to take over his attempt at cheeriness. He waited to speak until they’d gone into the chapel and dismissed the people there. “Nothing to joke about,” he said as he locked the entrances. “I mean, how am I supposed to be lighthearted about the woman who ripped out my heart and stomped it to tiny little bits?” The vehemence in his tone caught him by surprise and he wondered where it’d come from. Except this was what Líadan had been trying to get out of him for weeks now, if not months. Strange that it took her almost dying and then becoming incredibly angry with him again for it to come out. “A woman who could be the cause of all of our destruction? Or who now carries what could be the cause of all our destruction?” Hurt and anger laced together, constricting his chest as he continued, “I’d loved her and she took that love and tried to use it and me for her own twisted little plan for power. She used me and I fell for it like a stupid—”

“Stop,” said Líadan, turning toward him from the ward she’d just finished casting. “Just stop, okay? I’m sorry I said it. It was wrong of me. And, since apparently you were more hurt by it than you let on, I’m sorry for hitting you with lightning and throwing you across the room this afternoon. You caught me by surprise and I overreacted and you didn’t deserve that.”

“What?” He stared at her in askance, first at the commanding tone she’d taken with him, and then at her apology over what he’d thought she would never speak about again, since she’d told him as much minutes before. 

“You heard me. I’m not going to say it again.” She met his eyes and he saw something flicker in there, and she quickly looked away, biting her lip. “Look, for what it’s worth, I’m not sure it wasn’t unwelcome. Just surprising. I’d been crushed by an ogre right before losing consciousness. So I was expecting to wake up to something _not_ nice.”

So what he’d done had been nice? Or not? He couldn’t tell. He had no idea what she was saying. He wasn’t even sure that if he took a break and mulled over what she’d said for hours and hours that he’d be able to figure it out. What he could tell is that she wasn’t mad anymore and that alone made him happy. “Are you saying I look like an ogre?” he asked. 

That earned him a genuine laugh and welcome a break in the tension. “No.” Then she tilted her head to the side, eyes glinting the same way they had earlier, when she’d broken off the look. But this time, she kept looking at him, and he couldn’t look away, even as he felt a near-panic start within him at the emotions lurking behind it, and, he had to admit, within himself. Then Líadan started to speak, “In fact, I—”

Fiona bustled through the one door he’d left unlocked, Joining box in hand. “Líadan and I can start making the potion now, it’ll take about half an hour to finish, though,” she said, using her foot to shut the door behind her, eyes on the box she carried. When neither of the two younger Wardens answered her, she looked up and glanced from one to the other. First she seemed confused, and then she sighed. “Of course.”

“I’ll go get Anders and Mhairi and Nathaniel and have them prepare,” Malcolm said quickly, and then rushed out of the room to make his escape, his heart thumping wildly in his chest in fear of the emotions he’d seen in Líadan, and in him, and forming in between them. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

“In ancient times, the People were ageless and eternal, and instead of dying would enter the uthenera—the long sleep—and walk the shifting paths beyond the Veil with Falon’Din and his brother Dirthamen. Those elders would learn the secrets of dreams, and some returned to the People with newfound knowledge. 

But we quickened and became mortal. Those of the People who passed walked with Falon’Din into the Beyond and never returned. If they took counsel with Dirthamen on their passage, his wisdom was lost, for it went with them into the Beyond also, and never came to the People.

Then Fen’Harel caused the gods to be shut away from us, and those who passed no longer had Falon’Din to guide them. And so we learned to lay our loved ones to rest with an oaken staff, to keep them from faltering along the paths, and a cedar branch, to scatter the ravens named Fear and Deceit who were once servants of Dirthamen, now without a master.”

— _as told by Gisharel, keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish_

**Líadan**

“Right,” Líadan said, glaring at the door that Malcolm had quickly shut behind him. Though, as annoyed as she was that he’d walked—no, _run_ —away from the confrontation, she had to admit she felt relief that he’d done so. Even alone it was an awkward conversation and an even more awkward situation. He was probably still in love with Morrigan, or at least the idea what what she had been, that much seemed obvious. And she, on the other hand, wasn’t even sure how she truly felt. He was a human, after all, and the man who’d killed her best friend. Admittedly, to save her life, but the fact remained. But there was something there, she supposed, or they wouldn’t be acting all strange like this. Part of her wanted to go back to the way it was during the Blight, when they constantly annoyed and teased by each other and that was it. When none of this subtle whatever else that’d formed between them had been present, everything had made more sense then. She cursed under her breath, and then turned to look at Fiona.

As Líadan had stared at the closed door and ranted through her thoughts, Fiona had stepped up to the altar and opened the Joining box and started mixing components. “What do you need me to do?” Líadan asked the other mage. 

“Stop brooding, for one,” Fiona said without looking up from her task.

“I’m not brooding,” Líadan instantly replied. “I’m... something, but it’s not brooding.”

Still, Fiona didn’t look up. “If he’s anything like his father, you’ll have to confront him directly about it. Nothing else will make the conversation happen. You should probably seal off every exit before you speak with him, too, if he’s anything like me. And you’d be well off making sure that you truly feel whatever it is you feel about him before you take any step either of you might regret. The consequences of following your feelings could be dire.”

“Do you regret it?” The question came out before Líadan even knew she’d thought of it.

Fiona’s hands stopped in mid-air, still holding the second, smaller box where the archdemon blood vial rested. They shook, if briefly, at a jolt of memory. Then, “No, I don’t.”

“Don’t you wish it could have been different, though? Maric was a king and you’re an elf and a mage,” Líadan said, her own concerns bursting forth in her questions, seeking answers to her own doubts, ones she’d barely thought, let alone voiced. _Malcolm is a prince and I am a Dalish elf_ , she thought, even as she tried not to think it. _I’m a mage and he’s probably still in love with a different mage. And I don’t even know how I really feel about him anyway. Do I? Or am I just telling myself that?_ She was going to give herself a headache, that much was certain.

“It was what it was,” Fiona answered, fingers nimbly opening the box and adding a drop of the archdemon blood to the tincture. “It existed. It wasn’t for us to question. Did we? Of course. It’s our nature to question, as living beings.”

“What about Morrigan?” And so easily, Líadan shifted from past to present.

“I suspect that even if Morrigan ever truly loved him, what she must do takes precedence over whatever she might want with him. How she went to Zevran after Malcolm refused her is proof of that, I believe. Wherever it came from, she believes she has a duty far beyond anything she might feel for any mortal, including Malcolm. I fear her plans and her destiny do not involve him any longer. Perhaps his future involves you, but that remains for you and him to decide.” Fiona picked up the chalice and swirled the liquid around, and then set it down and said a short incantation over it. A purple aura formed around it for a few seconds then faded. She pursed her lips and studied the potion before pronouncing, “It’s done.”

Without the task of preparing the Joining potion as an intermediary, Líadan felt too uneasy about the topic they’d been discussing to continue. So she changed the subject. “I don’t like those templars being here.”

“I think Anders likes them being here even less than you do. After all, it’s him they’re after, not us.” Fiona tilted her head to the side. “You don’t even have a history with templars, do you?”

Líadan took a seat in one of the pews, surprised at how one sensitive topic had quickly turned into another. “It’s how my parents died.” Her fingers reached out and traced the patterns in the grain of the wood of the pew in front of her. The feeling of the smooth wood was nearly the same as her mother’s ironbark bow had been. She’d handed it to her as her father had armed himself with his spear and buckler, both of them readying to fight the group of five templars walking along the Brecilian Passage. “I’d been made a full Dalish hunter only a week before. And only a few days after that, I discovered I was a mage. I’d been out with a hunting party, near the Brecilian Passage, when one of the boys in the party made one crack too many about me being a girl. Before I even realized I was that annoyed, I’d hit him with a bolt of lightning and sent him flying.” Líadan smiled crookedly for a moment. “I guess that’s kind of my thing, considering I’ve done that to Malcolm more than once.” Then the smile faded. “When I did it, we’d been too close to the Passage, and some templars who were hunting an apostate of theirs sensed the magic. That’s why they headed for my village. The other hunters tracked them for two days and my parents decided that they would have to be stopped before they reached the rest of the clan. They... they should have gone with other hunters from my clan instead of by themselves. The templars were stopped, but at the cost of their lives as well.” Her vision blurred at the appearance of tears begging to be shed—as they hadn’t been even since the day her parents had died. 

“I’m sorry,” Fiona said softly.

“There’s no need for you to be. What happened wasn’t your fault.” No, Líadan knew it had been her own fault. If she had been more responsible for her actions, more aware of what powers she possessed, she wouldn’t have lost her temper, and wouldn’t have recklessly hit that annoying boy with lightning. Or even if she had, she should have paid attention to exactly how close to the Passage she and her party had been. Even had templars not been on the path, there could have been a group of humans, and she could have caught even their attention. Her actions had brought danger to her clan, and in a way, she’d been lucky enough to only cause the death of her parents and not even more people. 

The chapel’s door opened again, admitting Malcolm with Anders and Mhairi behind him, along with a man Líadan guessed must be Nathaniel Howe. Now _there_ was brooding. The man’s grey eyes took in the layout of the room and the two mages present, but then he retreated within himself before anyone could engage him. She tried to remember what the man’s father had looked like, but couldn’t bring up much. During the Landsmeet, she’d paid much more attention to Malcolm and Alistair, making sure that the former behaved and the latter wasn’t in any danger. Rendon Howe didn’t register much for deserving of memory, other than being an outrageous arse of a man. She wondered if Nathaniel reminded Malcolm strongly of him and what his family had truly suffered at Rendon Howe’s hands. And why had he conscripted the man, anyway, if he’d conspired to kill him? Not a normal choice when dealing with someone who wanted you dead, that much was true. If this Nathaniel lived through the Joining, she wouldn’t allow him a chance to kill Malcolm, she decided.

Malcolm assiduously avoided looking in her direction as much as he could, and she felt like rolling her eyes. For a man who faced down ogres and even archdemons, he could be remarkably skittish. At times, he reminded her of a young halla. After confirming with Fiona that the Joining potion was indeed ready, he launched right into the Joining without preamble, heading straight into the speech that had been said for her small Joining ceremony. To her surprise, he called on her to recite the Grey Warden oath, and to her even greater surprise, she remembered it perfectly. Once she’d finished, Malcolm removed the chalice from the altar and started with Nathaniel, proffering the cup and saying, “From this moment forth, Nathaniel, you are a Grey Warden.” And still, he betrayed nothing of exactly why he’d conscripted Howe.

Nathaniel eyed the cup for a moment and said, “The moment of truth.” Then he drank from the cup and Líadan had to hold back a grimace as she remembered the horrible taste. He gasped almost immediately and Malcolm snatched the chalice from his hands as he threw them out and fell backwards. 

Fiona was there almost instantly, kneeling at the man’s side and checking to see if his heart still beat. “He lives.”

Malcolm nodded and moved to the apostate, the chalice’s concoction representing the true freedom from the Chantry the mage had sought. “From this moment forth, Anders, you are a Grey Warden.”

The mage glanced over to where Nathaniel lay unmoving on the floor, and then back to the chalice and its contents. A flicker of understanding moved through his eyes. “So we need to drink darkspawn blood? That’s it?”

“There’s also a drop of archdemon blood and some lyrium,” Malcolm said, a look crossing his face that Líadan recognized as him refraining from rolling his eyes. “But that’s pretty much it, yes.”

With a shrug, Anders took the chalice. “Well, all right, but if I wake up in two weeks on a ship bound for Rivain in nothing but my smallclothes and a tattoo on my forehead, I’m blaming you.” He drank, and in the moment before the taint hit, Malcolm took the chalice back. Much the same as Nathaniel, Anders’ eyes turned all white and he fell backward onto the stone floor.

Being the closest, Líadan moved forward this time to check on him, pressing her fingers to his warm neck. “He lives,” she said, and then stood.

Malcolm glanced at her and nodded, looking her in the eye for only the briefest of moments. Gritting her teeth, she decided she’d speak to him that night, if she could. Even if they didn’t sort things out between the two of them in regards to whatever it was they felt, they could at least go back to acting normal around each other. They were going to have new Grey Wardens, they had these other Orlesian Wardens to meet at Vigil’s Keep, and they had a whole lot to sort out regarding these talking darkspawn and the whole problem with Morrigan. They couldn’t afford to be acting oddly around each other. 

Finally, Malcolm stepped in front of the overeager Mhairi and offered her the chalice. “From this moment forth, Mhairi, you are a Grey Warden.”

The knight grabbed the chalice enthusiastically, looking as if she relished the distinctively nasty smell as she brought it to her lips. “I have awaited this moment,” she said happily, and Líadan had to work to keep her jaw from dropping at the amount of cheer in the knight’s tone. Mhairi’s eyes went white and she pitched to the ground and all three of the conscious Wardens exchanged shocked looks when they realized that Mhairi still breathed.

“Certainly didn’t expect her to live,” said Malcolm, bringing the chalice over to where the box was and setting to constructing three Joining amulets. 

“Why’s that?” asked Fiona. 

“Mhairi reminded me of a knight who was at my Joining. All he could talk about was how glorious and honorable it was to become a Grey Warden. Then when we were hunting darkspawn, he kept whining that we shouldn’t be out in the dangerous Korcari Wilds. And then when we got back, he whined about more tests, and then whined that Duncan and the Wardens expected too much. When the Joining came around, it didn’t go well. He didn’t even make it to drinking the blood. He drew his sword and tried to escape. Duncan had to kill him. To this day, I wonder if the man would even have lived if he’d drank the stuff.” Malcolm shrugged. “I’ll never know, of course. And the other recruit at my Joining didn’t fare well, either, but he was made of much better stuff than that knight, that’s for sure. At least Mhairi had the guts to drink. I just think she’s got a lot to realize about what it means to be a Warden. It isn’t all righteous rainbows and glorious griffons, as she seems to think.”

Líadan said, “I’ve yet to see a single rainbow, come to think of it. You know, I could deal with seeing a lot more rainbows if I can’t have any griffons.” Then she looked over to the three unconscious bodies. “How long will it take them to wake up?”

“Took Zevran an hour. Took you all of thirty minutes, if that,” Malcolm replied. “And I’ve no idea how it all works in terms of how someone lives and how long it takes for them to wake up.” He looked over at Fiona.

She shrugged. “No one knows, not even at Weisshaupt. Took me two hours, so it has nothing to do with body size and weight.”

Líadan wanted to make a comment about how in all of Thedas Fiona had given birth to two sons who’d turned out to be as tall and broad as Malcolm and Alistair with her being so tiny. But, she held back, knowing that the topic was a highly dangerous one in Ferelden, and was really only a safe topic in a few places at Weisshaupt. If the three new Wardens hadn’t been in the room, and they’d still warded the chapel to silence, it would be safe to speak of. But only then. Instead, she said, “I asked because I just don’t like the idea of Anders being unconscious with the templars around.” She glanced over at the closed doors. “I half-expected them to come running in when you made the finishing touch on the potion.”

“Fergus said he posted guards at the only exit from the wing he put the templars in for the night,” said Malcolm as he set aside the last pendant. He hands moved swiftly and confidently as he wiped out the chalice, packed it into the box, and snapped it shut. “So I think he’s safe. At any rate, even if they do manage to get in here, I’ve no intention of them taking him. Fergus will make sure they’re on their way back to the Circle or wherever it is they need to go in the morning.”

“How long will we be staying?” Líadan asked.

“Through tomorrow, I think. They’ll need some time to recover. I can at least give them that,” he replied, inclining his head toward the three new Wardens, and then a half-smile flitting across his lips. “Even though I only had a few hours after my Joining before I got thrown into battle. And within hours after that, Alistair and I were the only Grey Wardens left in the country. I guess that makes these guys pretty lucky. Now our numbers of actual Fereldans is at its highest, I believe. Well, if you consider yourself Fereldan, Líadan.” He looked at her, meeting her eyes again, and for the first time in a while, not looking away.

“I...” Her immediate inclination was to answer in the negative, but she found she couldn’t say the words. Was she Dalish? Or Fereldan? Or maybe she was both, if that were possible. Being Fereldan wasn’t just a human thing, was it? The Dalish clan she’d been a member of had always stayed within the borders of Ferelden, and had a clan from Antiva or Nevarra asked, she’d have told them her clan was from Ferelden. “I suppose I do,” she finally said. “And Dalish.”

“Hard to forget that with those tattoos.” He motioned toward her face to illustrate.

“Other elves have tattoos. Zevran did.”

“Those were Antivan Crow tattoos. And he certainly didn’t worship the gods of the elven pantheon,” Malcolm replied, and then screwed up his face in thought. “At least, I don’t think he did. Though when we were in that cave where you found that Tevinter mirror, he did recognize one of the statues as being an elven god. Then he told me his mother was Dalish.”

“Yes,” Líadan said, remembering the conversation she’d had with their friend once. “He told me that his mother was a Dalish elf who fell in love with an elven woodcutter and left her clan for him, accompanying him back to the city. But the woodcutter died and she was forced to become a whore, and then she died giving birth to Zevran. So he was raised in the whorehouse until the Antivan Crows bought him.”

“Sounds like this fellow led an interesting life,” said Fiona.

“You could say that,” Malcolm said, hopping up into the high stool behind the lectern after returning the Chant of Light volume to its customary spot. “I think he hit on everything that breathed.”

Líadan smiled. “I think he did as well. I think he even told me about his mother because he was hitting on me. Never worked, though, much to his chagrin.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “Really? Alistair was convinced it had.”

“Alistair isn’t always the most observant of men,” said Líadan.

“True.”

And neither is his brother, she didn’t say. Then she narrowed her eyes at Malcolm. “You thought so, too, didn’t you?”

“Of course not.”

She continued looking at him, knowing very well that he was lying. Malcolm was good at many things, but lying wasn’t one of them. Alistair had the same problem, and from what Líadan had heard about Cailan and Maric, the inability to lie effectively or well seemed to be a trait that ran strong within the Theirin line.

At first Malcolm remained entirely still in the stool, but as the seconds changed to a minute and more, he started to squirm, and then blush. “Okay, I had suspicions.” Then as quickly as he’d been slightly amused, his mood turned dark. “Anyway, in the end, it worked on Morrigan I suppose.”

Líadan scowled. Of course he’d think of Morrigan again. Always Morrigan, the woman who had betrayed him. Even now, when she was Creators knew where, she had hold over him, fouling up whatever future he could have. Well, if this Old God child became the problem everyone thought it would be, she was fouling up the future of all of Thedas. “Oh, sod Morrigan,” she said under her breath.

“What was that?” Malcolm asked.

“Nothing. I’m just surprised that you still...” she trailed off and shrugged. “No, nothing.”

This time, he narrowed his eyes. “Why do you care so much?”

“Why do you always ask me that?” she asked, annoyed that he’d started in on that line of questioning with Fiona standing right there, and three unconscious new Wardens nearby who could wake up at any time. Meaning, of course, if she could come up with an acceptable answer, she couldn’t say it. And if she did say it, despite the audience of Fiona, the ensuing conversation would be interrupted by waking Wardens. Those possibilities also precluded her being able to come up with an answer, which she couldn’t. If she could, she figured that would make things,whatever they were, much easier.

“I’d stop asking if you’d answer for once,” he replied, sliding off the stool. 

Líadan folded her arms over her chest. “I guess you’ll just have to keep asking.”

“I guess you’ll have to stop getting so annoyed that I ask,” Malcolm said, crossing his own arms as a mirror to her. 

“Maker’s mercy,” Fiona muttered to herself, and then walked over toward the new Wardens, continuing to mumble under her breath. Líadan thought she heard Fiona say something about them being worse than she and Maric had been, but she couldn’t be sure, even with her elven hearing. She was at least certain that Malcolm didn’t catch a word of it, as scratched his head and watched in bewilderment as Fiona walked away. Before either of the young people present could continue their conversation, Fiona said, loud enough for both of them to hear this time, “Mhairi is waking up.”

The former knight was followed quickly by Anders, and soon after that was Nathaniel. Malcolm gave them a short welcoming speech, which Líadan thought was much better than the one she’d gotten. Actually, she wasn’t even sure if she’d gotten one at all in the first place. Then again, her Joining had been more of a cure from immediate death rather than a ‘welcome to this really old order that fights the nastiest beings you’ve ever seen’ initiation. After the speech and handing them their pendants, Malcolm had servants bring the new Wardens to their rooms to sleep off the exhaustion often left to Wardens after the Joining. 

“Part of me wants to post a guard outside Anders’ room,” Malcolm said as he watched the doors close after the last servant and new Warden left the chapel.

Fiona’s brow furrowed. “Do you think he’ll run? Is that why?”

“No, I don’t think he’ll run. He doesn’t seem the type.” At dubious looks from both Fiona and Líadan, he explained, “Not withstanding his seven escape attempts from the Circle, which I still think is epic in terms of determination and genius. Though, obviously, his ability to evade capture needs a lot of work. What I meant is that he wanted to escape the Chantry’s control and the prison he sees the tower as, I think. The Wardens will give him a freedom he’s wanted, at least at first. Maybe later he’ll see being in the Order as a prison as much as the Circle, but not yet. And he seems the kind of guy who’d at least tell me before he left.” Malcolm shrugged. “He might even ask permission to go.” Then he glanced over at Fiona. “Can people do that? Leave the Wardens?”

“Sort of,” Fiona replied. “In terms of being a Warden meaning taking an oath that cannot be forsworn, I believe they mean the taint. You can’t escape that. Eventually, if you don’t die from other causes such as a barfight or bad luck, you’ll either find yourself in the Deep Roads or the darkspawn will find you. I’ve seen the end result of letting the taint run its course in its entirety. You...” she trailed off and sighed, and then quickly moved to lock the remaining door to the chapel and double check the wards of silence. “You become a darkspawn. A ghoul, really, but a very different kind than the ones you see during Blights or from a small dose of the taint, such as from a bite. You hear the Call of the Old Gods, too, even if it isn’t a Blight. The same Call the darkspawn hear that makes them dig and search. That’s what drives you to the Deep Roads if you don’t go there before the taint goes too far. You’re as compelled to search for the Old Gods as the darkspawn. It’s... disconcerting.”

“Could you hear the archdemon Calling during the Blight?” Malcolm asked.

“No, I couldn’t,” Fiona replied. “I believe the Calling I heard when I was in the Deep Roads those many years ago will be the only Old Gods I ever hear, corrupted or not.”

“I wonder if you would’ve heard it when we fought it face-to-face,” said Líadan. “I mean, since you can still sense darkspawn, I bet you would have. It was very odd, having it basically singing to you in this strange, yet beautiful unintelligible language while you were trying to stab it to death.”

“Well, I’m happy the Anders mages at Weisshaupt didn’t get an idea for an experiment, and then try to have you guys hold off that final battle with the archdemon, all just to see if I’d hear it if I met it,” Fiona said, half-smiling. 

“The archdemon was a pretty nasty piece of work, I’ll give it that.” Malcolm got to his feet and started roaming about the room, poking at some of the bookshelves as he talked. “Seeing it really gives you a good image of what corruption really means. When we were in the Frostbacks, trying to find those Sacred Ashes, we happened to see a real high dragon. It was at once terrifying and beautiful. Actually, the same thing could be said about Flemeth, when she shapeshifted into one. High dragons are a thing of beauty. Archdemons are most certainly _not_.” He shuddered. “I’d rather face a hundred shapeshifted Flemeths rather than another archdemon.”

“Flemeth,” Fiona repeated. “She was Morrigan’s mother, correct?”

Malcolm removed a book from a shelf, read the title, and then replaced it. “Yes.”

Then the name clicked with Líadan. Always, Morrigan’s mother’s name had sounded familiar, but not until now did she recall why. “ _Asha’belannar_ ,” Líadan said out loud.

“What?” said Malcolm, turning around to face the Dalish elf.

“The Woman of Many Years,” Fiona translated. At Líadan’s curious look, she said, “At Weisshaupt, I had plenty of time to read.” She gestured to her pointed ears. “Naturally, elven history was one of my interests.”

Líadan certainly couldn’t fault her for that. While many of her clan members had looked down on their city-dwelling brethren, and even Líadan had done so for a while, her time spent traveling as a Grey Warden had changed her outlook. City elves, by and large, were trapped in their situations, in what life had given them. They did what they could with what they had, and it wasn’t her place to judge their best efforts. Many who had moved beyond a mere city existence had horrible stories that had brought them out. Líadan felt for certain Fiona had one of those stories, but she wouldn’t press her for it. 

“So the elves know about Flemeth, too,” said Malcolm. His fingers traced a line of dusty books on another shelf. He removed another one and opened it. Then he removed a scrap of paper from it, looked at it briefly, and a ghost of a smile tweaked his mouth. “I wonder if the Dalish stories are anything like the human stories. And if the dwarves have any stories of her, too. It’s possible, if she’s as old as legend lets on.” He closed the book and returned it to the shelf, and then pocketed the paper he’d gotten from it without any explanation to the other two people in the room.

“You said that you and the others killed her before you found me.” Líadan watched Malcolm’s movements about the small chapel closely, wondering what drove him to wander. It could be the subject matter, as it was something closely related, in more ways than one, to Morrigan. But he’d started his wandering before Flemeth had come up. It had to be something else. 

“I’d thought we had. But now I’m really starting to doubt it. I did some reading while I was at Weisshaupt, and there were stories there that spoke of Flemeth... and then there was a disturbing story that had to do with a woman whose name was Morrigan, but spelled a bit differently. An Avvar spelling, I think.” His eyes returned to the books. “I wonder if the story is here, too. And if there’s more stories.”

“Why did you kill Flemeth, again?” Fiona asked.

He turned and faced them. “Morrigan asked me to.”

Fiona raised an eyebrow.

Malcolm sighed, clearly showing his reluctance to talk of the matter, yet knowing that he must. “After we got one of Flemeth’s grimoires from the Circle Tower—which, by the way, Alistair will tell you that I stole, which I did not—Morrigan read it and found out how Flemeth lives for so long. Basically, she has daughters, and then once the daughters are powerful enough in their magic, she takes their bodies for her own. Morrigan, not wanting to be forcibly removed from her body by her mother, asked that Flemeth be killed for her safety. We thought it wise to do so. Morrigan was a known entity, as much as she could be known, while Flemeth was not. I’m still not sure if it was a mistake or not. I mean, Morrigan...” he frowned, trailing off, as if struck by another thought and trying to give word to it. “I always said if you want something done, do it yourself, or hear about it for a decade or two afterwards,” he finally said, and then blinked, coming out of his introspection. “That’s something Flemeth said before we left her hut with Morrigan after Ostagar. Flemeth said a lot of strange things, most of which didn’t make sense. But, looking back... it was probably a lot more significant than we gave it credit for.”

“Do you think Morrigan was already Flemeth by then?” Fiona asked.

Malcolm made a disgusted face. “Maker, I _hope_ not. For a whole host of different reasons.” Then, despite himself, he smiled a bit at the inadvertent pun. “Ha. Host. Host body.”

Líadan rolled her eyes. “That’s nearly as bad as Oghren. Just give it a tawdry implication and that’d be exactly something he’d say and how he’d react to it.”

“I could probably figure out a way to make it tawdry,” said Malcolm.

“Please don’t,” Fiona immediately said. “And before you do anyway, I’m excusing myself to bed. It’s been a long day and a long time on the road before that.” The older mage stepped quietly out of the room. 

“She did it again,” said Malcolm. “I wonder if that’s a sneaky talent that comes with being a Grey Warden for a long time, or if it’s something inherent to a person before they become a Warden.” After a moment of staring after the closed door, he went back to wandering along the bookshelves. 

“Why do you keep doing that?” Líadan asked, finally unable to tamp down her curiosity.

“I... I was just thinking. Realizing, actually,” Malcolm answered after a short silence. “Howe and his soldiers, they never touched this room. They never burned it like they did and tried to do with the rest of the castle. All these books were here before. That volume of the Chant of Light on the lectern? Same one that’s been here since I was small. These books, too. They’re more dusty than they would be if they were different ones.” He dug the paper he’d gotten earlier out of his pocket and held it up. “And this was in one of the books. I drew it when I was six or seven years old. Somewhere in there.”

Wanting another glimpse into Malcolm’s mind, Líadan took the paper and looked at it. There was a roughly-drawn figure of a little girl—at least, she assumed it was, given the dress—but with a mustache and angry eyes scribbled onto it. “Delilah Howe is a snooty pighead,” Líadan read, and then looked up at Malcolm. “Pighead?”

He shrugged. “I was little! It was the best I could do.”

“Any relation to the Nathaniel Howe we just inducted into the order?”

“His sister. She never liked me. Insisted I was a horrid barbarian, among other things.”

“I can’t imagine why.” Líadan handed the paper back to Malcolm. “Wasn’t she the one who you spattered mud onto while in her new dress?”

He raised an eyebrow. “How’d you know that?”

“Someone else told me the story.” She very well couldn’t say that Morrigan had told her, even though it had been Morrigan that’d relayed the story, with great amusement. It had been one of the many stories that Morrigan had told her in the days when Líadan had been convinced Malcolm was an awful man. Horrid, like the young Delilah Howe had thought, though certainly not for the same reasons. Morrigan, through her stories, and even how she interacted with Malcolm, had showed Líadan that Malcolm wasn’t the man she’d assumed he was. Odd, how it turned out that Morrigan hadn’t been the woman she’d thought she was, either. A powerful mage, yes. A woman with an understanding of the darker side of human nature, yes. But a traitorous bitch? She hadn’t quite seen that one coming. None of them had. 

“It was Morrigan, wasn’t it?” Malcolm asked, tucking the paper away again.

“I—yes.” She sighed. “Sorry, didn’t mean to bring her up.”

He shrugged. “We spent a lot of time with her. And even now, she’s got us all chasing after her and trying to figure out what she’s done to doom us all. Pretty hard for her not to come up in conversation all the time.”

Líadan had no wish to continue talking about Morrigan. Not after the conversation they’d almost had earlier. Nor did she want to continue _that_ conversation, not until she sorted herself out, forget what she’d decided earlier. “So... Nathaniel Howe. Why’d you conscript him?”

“I thought I already told you. He’d have been executed otherwise. I mean, I suppose Alistair could’ve granted him clemency, but I’m not sure it would’ve been a wise move politically. Hard to tell. Anyway, that doesn’t matter now. He lived through the Joining. He’s a Grey Warden. End of story.”

She leaned against the side of one of the pews and crossed her arms. “Did you want him to live?”

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation. But she noticed something else lurking behind his eyes, a doubt of some kind.

The story of Malcolm’s conscription came to mind. The attack had happened in this very castle, so it hadn’t been far from her thoughts in the first place. It was hard not to think of it. “Did you... did you force Nathaniel to become a Warden because you were forced to become one because of what his father did?” When he didn’t deny it right away, she stood up straight. “Did you conscript him out of _revenge_?”

He met her angry stare for a moment, and then looked away. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t _know_?” Líadan threw at him.

Malcolm caught the anger and accepted it. “No, I don’t.”

“This is a person’s life we’re talking about,” she continued, starting to pace. “Granted, from what you say, he probably would’ve been put to death otherwise, but it still doesn’t make it _right_ if you didn’t conscript him to avoid his life being wasted.” She turned to him again. “Did he want to be conscripted?”

“Not at first.”

“Not at first?” she repeated. “So, what, you conscripted him and he automatically had a change of heart?”

“Not exactly.”

“Right, so he didn’t want to be a Grey Warden, even though he was going to be executed. But you conscripted him anyway and you can’t deny that it wasn’t for revenge and nothing else? It wasn’t about saving a life. It wasn’t about being a pragmatic Warden and gaining another skilled recruit. It was about Malcolm Theirin’s need for revenge, to curse this man to thirty years living with the taint slowly poisoning him instead of letting him have a clean death. What is _wrong_ with you? It’s as bad as what his father did to you and your family!”

He visibly flinched and rage tinged his words. “I am nothing like Rendon Howe!”

“You are if you can’t decide if you conscripted the man’s son out of duty or revenge. If it’s duty you settle on then you’re the man I know. If it’s revenge... you aren’t who I thought you were and I’ve misjudged you as badly as I misjudged _Morrigan_.”

He opened his mouth, and then closed it.

Líadan looked away. “Let me know when you figure it out,” she said softly, and then left the chapel. 

She didn’t look back.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

“It is a truth universally acknowledged that nothing is more successful at inspiring a person to mischief as being told not to do something. Unfortunately, the Chantry of the Divine Age had some trouble with obvious truths. Although it did not outlaw magic—quite the contrary, as the Chantry relied upon magic to kindle the eternal flame which burns in every brazier in every chantry—it relegated mages to lighting candles and lamps. Perhaps occasional dusting of rafters and eaves.

I will give my readers a moment to contemplate how well such a role satisfied the mages of the time.

It surprised absolutely no one when the mages of Val Royeaux, in protest, snuffed the sacred flames of the cathedral and barricaded themselves inside the choir loft. No one, that is, but Divine Ambrosia II, who was outraged and attempted to order an Exalted March upon her own cathedral. Even her most devout Templars discouraged that idea. For 21 days, the fires remained unlit while negotiations were conducted, legend tells us, by shouting back and forth from the loft.

The mages went cheerily into exile in a remote fortress outside of the capital, where they would be kept under the watchful eye of the Templars and a council of their own elder magi. Outside of normal society, and outside of the Chantry, the mages would form their own closed society, the Circle, separated for the first time in human history.

—from _Of Fires, Circles, and Templars: A History of Magic in the Chantry_ by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

**Malcolm**

He watched her go. 

He’d had no idea what to say. The rage fell into self-recrimination and a fruitless attempt to figure out why he’d conscripted Nathaniel. But still, his mind had refused to give him a solid answer, even as Líadan had glared at him harder than she ever had before. Her anger had deepened the green of her eyes and burned into him, desperately trying to make him answer. But he had none for her, because he had none for himself. 

Malcolm left the chapel and wandered throughout the castle as if looking for something. Answers, he knew. His feet brushed at the new granite stones on the larder floor, swiping at the new to find the old, to discover answers that could be written in the blood that’d been spilled by Rendon Howe. But the blood had long since been removed, the stones that the blood had stained  carried away and disposed of. He opened the door to the servants’ entrance, the cool, damp air of the tunnel brushing through the short strands of his hair. Strains of Eleanor Cousland’s prayer from that night reached his ears once again, but offered nothing in the way of answers for the reason behind his actions. Sighing, he shut the door.

He left the room behind, as bereft of answers as he’d been before.

The ramparts gave him no extra insight. Guards cast him curious looks as he slowly walked past, eyes moving from the stones underfoot and to the landscape beyond the walls. Wind rustled through the trees, across the fields in front of the walls, and over into the castle’s keep. The smell of salt from the Waking Sea rode with it and it wrapped him in memories of his childhood. Then the present tore the warm wrapping away when he got to a new section of wall, one built to replace one that Howe had partially knocked down as his troops had rampaged through the castle. Anger ripped through him, anger he’d thought he’d set aside when he’d spoken with the spirit of Bryce Cousland in the Gauntlet. Obviously, he’d been wrong in that assumption. And still, there were no answers.

He gave up on walking the castle and returned to his room, taking note that it was the same room he’d had as a child. The same room where Gunnar had woken him up with his growling, where the servant who tried to warn him about the attack got an arrow through the chest for his efforts. He found his dog waiting inside, settled in front of the fireplace and absorbing the heat emanating from it. Gunnar lifted his head when Malcolm walked in, offering a quiet bark in greeting before returning to his dozing. Normally, Gunnar could tell when he was troubled and helped him sort through it. Perhaps he should take then hint, then, and sleep on it.

He tried, and partly succeeded.

A few hours later, he woke up, hands automatically reaching for his sword and armor. Cocking his head to listen, he stopped in mid-reach, trying to figure out why he’d woken up. It hadn’t been a nightmare. Those, he remembered, or they at least left some kind of distinctive emotional aftereffect, and he didn’t feel that. But something was off, he could sense that much. Not darkspawn, he didn’t feel them. He slid out of bed and into his armor, unwilling to ignore his instincts. That was a mistake he never intended to make again, not after he’d paid, and paid heavily, for not listening to them before. As he drew his sword from its sheath, leaving his shield on his back, he nudged Gunnar up with his foot. The hound quickly came to his feet, ears swiveling back and forth as if searching for the source of the same wrongness that Malcolm felt. 

Malcolm cracked open his door and listened through the opening, but heard nothing again. He slipped through, Gunnar treading behind him, and crept through the hallway, sword at the ready. At the intersection, he looked back and forth, trying to decide which direction to take. Then he felt it. Not heard it, but felt it. Magic. Someone had used magic and someone _else_ had used a templar ability. Which, now that he thought about it, was like magic in of itself—not that he’d tell a sworn templar that. But at least that told him where the trouble was. He ran towards the guest quarters, where Anders, the apostate now a Grey Warden that the templars had so desperately wanted, was supposed to be sleeping. Not to mention that Fiona, a mage, a Grey Warden, _and_ his mother, and Líadan—a mage whom he cared about far more than he was willing to admit—were there as well. 

He ran faster.

As he ran past the wing where the templars had been quartered, he took note of the two guards who’d been assigned to watch the entrance. The two guards who were now either unconscious or dead illuminated by the weak pre-dawn light. Images of the Fall wavered through his vision and he shook his head to be rid of them. Now wasn’t the time. The past didn’t matter. The present did. He heard shouting and the clang of swords and Gunnar picked up speed as well at the sounds. Malcolm started to make out voices—Líadan, then Fiona. A male voice, too. Anders? No, it was Nathaniel Howe. When Malcolm and the mabari ran around the corner, they found two templars dragging a semi-conscious Anders through the entrance to the guest wing. 

Behind them, Fiona’s face was set in a furious glare, her knuckles white on her hands as she gripped her staff with equal fury. But there was no snap of magic, no aura of energy that would soon be crackling that he’d seen in all the mages he’d known, Fiona included. Nathaniel stood next to her, alternately looking at the unmoving body near his feet and the two other templars standing in front of them, swords out, blocking their path to the door and Anders. Mhairi was nowhere to be seen.

Malcolm’s chest constricted at the sight of Líadan’s body limp and unconscious again, after having seen it that way not even twenty-four hours before. He found it odd that Nathaniel, who barely knew her, looked to be nearly as angry. But Malcolm knew his attention and focus, for the time being, had to be on Anders and the two templars trying to drag him away. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked the helmed templars.

“Bringing this apostate to justice,” came Ser Rylock’s voice out from under one of the helms. She sounded oddly tinny, and a small part of Malcolm wanted to giggle at how it sounded. But he managed not to.

“No, you aren’t. You’re kidnapping a Grey Warden,” Malcolm replied, attempting to sound calm. He hoped he pulled it off. Wouldn’t do to get hysterical in this situation, as much as he wanted to. Part of him hoped the templars would resort to violence and he could just fight their idiots selves with his sword instead of words. “In case you’re wondering, that’s a crime. Not only was Anders conscripted yesterday, but he underwent the Joining last evening. He’s a full Warden. It would be best if you let him go and walked away now.”

“Grey Wardens can’t escape the king’s justice.” Rylock didn’t let go of Anders. Behind her, the two other templars started looking back and forth between the two Wardens in front of them, and the confrontation going on with their leader and Malcolm behind them.

“He hasn’t committed a crime that requires him to face _any_ justice, much less the king’s. And I know you aren’t here on the king’s orders. He’s in Denerim right now and has no idea what’s happened around here for the past couple days, including Anders getting conscripted. You’ve had no time to appeal to him. Besides that, he wouldn’t take your side anyway. This isn’t justice, Ser Rylock. This is a vendetta.”

“This is the Maker’s justice we’re seeing to,” said Rylock. “Higher than any king’s. It supersedes the Grey Wardens, as well. You can’t interfere.”

“You do realize that the only reason you aren’t dead is because we’re choosing not to hurt you, right?” Malcolm said in another attempt to appeal to a sense of reason that he was now fairly convinced these templars didn’t possess. 

“All of these mages have been hit with holy smites,” piped up the other templar holding Anders. “And there’s just two of you left and that mabari. I think we’ll take our chances.”

“There’s also several guards out here,” came Fergus’s voice before he rounded the corner to show himself. “Around twenty or so, in case you’re wondering. I would advise you to let the mage go and lay down your arms before these Grey Wardens or my guards have to do anything violent. I’m already having you arrested for disturbing the king’s peace, I doubt you want there to be more charges added. Or for you to be dead.” Mhairi was right behind Fergus. She must’ve run to get him, Malcolm realized.

“You cannot stop justice,” said Rylock. She made a small movement to the templar watching from behind her. The templar swung around with his sword out, his intent quite clear. 

Malcolm, though shocked at the turn of events, did the only thing he could think of—he called a holy smite, aiming it directly onto the crowd of templars, and hit the entire group with it. The smite did as was intended and knocked them all to the ground in a pile of plate armor and Swords of Mercy. The Highever guards swarmed in and picked the pile apart, tossing swords aside and dragging surly templars to their feet. 

“That might the only time I ever enjoy being hit with a smite,” Anders said tiredly.

Malcolm grinned at him, and then pushed impatiently through the milling bodies of templars and guards and into the chamber beyond. Fiona knelt over Líadan, the scowl still on her face. 

“I’m sorry. I tried, but I couldn’t stop them,” Nathaniel said to Malcolm. 

“Not your fault,” Malcolm found himself saying absently, wondering why the other man had felt it necessary to apologize to _him_.

There was a scuffle outside the door as one of the templars resisted the guards, but it was quickly quelled with a sword pommel to the helm of the templar. Fiona’s small hands moved above Líadan’s body, the younger elf’s chest thankfully still rising and falling, a blue glow forming between Fiona’s hands and Líadan. It faintly reflected on Líadan’s incredibly pale face. Malcolm heard Nathaniel leave the room and go out to converse with Fergus and the recovering Anders. 

“She’ll be okay,” Fiona said. “After what she went through yesterday, the smite took much more out of her than it normally would. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t anything else. It will be a while before she wakes up, though, perhaps even hours.” She looked up at Malcolm. “Help me carry her to her room.”

He blanched and looked warily at Líadan. “Really?” This was a setup of some sort, he knew it.

Fiona lifted an eyebrow. “Would you rather I ask someone else? I assure you, she won’t wake up and hit you with lightning while you carry her.”

“Fine. If you say so.” Plus, he didn’t really want anyone else carrying her. And if Fiona promised that Líadan wouldn’t wake up and hurt him for being nice again, he supposed he could do it without complaint. He sighed and picked Líadan up, surprised, like he’d been when he’d caught her in the aeries at Weisshaupt, at how light she was. Fiona led him a short way down the hall and opened the door to one of the guest rooms. Malcolm gently deposited Líadan on the bed inside, at once relieved and regretting having to let her go. Oddly, his missed the warmth that’d come from her body, even through his armor. Fiona then ushered him out of the room and back toward the where the others waited. 

Anders noticed them first. “How is Líadan? I saw her fall after that smite.”

“Just exhausted,” Fiona replied.

Anders nodded, and then looked to Malcolm. “I already thanked Teyrn Fergus, but I suppose I should thank you, too. I’m surprised you were willing to fight them to keep me with you.”

Malcolm shrugged, feeling strange at the sudden thanks. “You’re a Grey Warden. I’d do the same for any Warden. It’s how it works. We stick up for each other.” _For the most part_ , he thought, but kept that bit to himself. Anders really didn’t need to know about all the politics that went on at Weisshaupt and the ridiculous amounts of arguments they’d gotten into in the First Warden’s study. He could spring that sort of thing on him after he explained the thirty-year death sentence. Somewhere around there. Or maybe not ever.

“Well, thank you all the same,” said Anders, surprise at the turn of events still showing clearly on his lightly-bearded face. Then he took on a curiously hesitant look. “Um, I’m not sure if this is a good time to mention it, but would I be able to get some food? I’m _starving_.”

“Me, too,” said Nathaniel from where he was speaking with Mhairi. 

Malcolm couldn’t keep away the slight grin that formed on his lips. “And you, too, Mhairi?”

The former knight nodded, looking confused.

“I _knew_ it was a Grey Warden thing,” Fergus said, a smile mirroring his younger brother’s. “You lot and your secrets. The whole legendary Warden appetite isn’t a very good secret. While no one knows the cause of it, we all know you _have_ them.” He inclined his heads towards Fiona. “Especially when, in a single sitting, tiny women like you eat more than three grown men combined. I couldn’t believe it the first time I saw Líadan eat. I kept wondering where she put it all.”

“It must go to fine places,” said Anders in an appreciative manner.

Malcolm didn’t appreciate it and couldn’t stop the quick glare he sent the mage’s way. He cursed inwardly at himself at the reaction, knowing full well he had no right to act like that about Líadan. She wasn’t ‘his’ to guard in any way when it came to anyone going after her romantically, like Anders might, after what he’d said. But the thought of Anders being with Líadan set him on edge, despite how he tried to rationalize how he should act. Then Anders smirked and Malcolm realized that he’d been had. The mage had tried to get a reaction out of him on purpose. And then Anders winked toward Fergus and Malcolm had to stop himself from doing something not nice to his brother. Even though the templars had caused a terrible interruption in the pre-dawn hours, somehow Anders and Fergus had conspired to mess with him. Good to know Fergus so heartily approved of his choice in recruits. And conspired with them so quickly.

“Come on, we can head to the dining hall now. It’s dawn anyway. I suppose the templars made a pretty effective wake up call,” said Fergus after sending a smirk of his own toward Malcolm. 

“Bastards,” said Anders.

Some of the guards in the room glanced in surprise at the mage at his sudden pronouncement.

“Oh, I know, I know.” Anders looked around at the others. “ _Most_ people enjoy being kicked in the head to be woken up each morning. Me? I’m just so picky.”

“I didn’t say they made good ones,” said Fergus. “At any rate, they’re locked up in the dungeon for now. I’ll either be sending them to Denerim or waiting for Alistair to come up for a visit to give his judgement on them. King’s justice indeed.” 

The cooks were already up and about and bustling through the kitchens and dining hall, serving the Wardens and the teyrn without much disturbing their routine. Malcolm watched, mildly amused, as the three new Wardens tore into their breakfast without a second thought given to manners. But his thoughts kept going back to Líadan, asleep and recovering from the templars’ attack, and their argument that’d taken place the night before. Again, she’d been injured and could have died, and they hadn’t settled anything that was between them. Of course, he couldn’t do much to fix that until he figured out why he’d conscripted Nathaniel Howe. And if he discovered that he’d done it for revenge, there’d be nothing between them to worry over, because that action would lay waste to anything that might’ve formed in the past few months. Perhaps he wouldn’t know his answer until Nathaniel let on whether or not he liked being a Warden. Malcolm’s reaction to that would be indicative of why he’d conscripted the other man. He wondered how long that would take to be revealed, and how many times he or Líadan would come into danger in the meantime.

Probably a lot, given recent history.

He sighed.

“Yes, you are an idiot,” Fergus said from next to him.

“Thanks for your support, brother,” Malcolm replied.

“Anytime.” Fergus pushed his plate away. “So, templars track apostates using phylacteries, right?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“A couple reasons. One of them is me wondering when mages become Grey Wardens, if their phylacteries should either be given by the Chantry to the Wardens or destroyed entirely, so rogue templars like we had to deal with this morning wouldn’t be a problem.”

Malcolm considered the proposition. “I’m not sure. I mean, mages could just try to join the Wardens, and once they’re made into Wardens and their phylacteries destroyed, take off. But I never liked the idea of phylacteries in the first place anyway, so I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Maybe give the Wardens the phylacteries, at the very least, to minimize Chantry involvement.”

“If a Grey Warden mage runs from the Wardens or even just leaves the Wardens with permission briefly during a time of peace, and the Chantry finds out, they are declared apostates,” Fiona said from across from them. 

“So they aren’t even accorded the same rights as a non-mage.” Malcolm frowned. “As usual. Figures.”

“Good to know,” Anders said around a mouthful of fresh bread. “Also, just to let you know, I’m not planning on running.” 

“Somehow, even if Alistair gets the Chantry to come down hard on these templars, I doubt it’s the last we’ll hear of them,” said Malcolm. “Anders, did you do anything particularly awful to Ser Rylock specifically that makes her want to bring you in so badly?”

“Maybe. Might’ve made her break her vows. One vow in particular. Just a possibility.” Then Anders went back to the serious matter of eating his way through the entire Highever Castle larder.

Mhairi gaped at the mage with a bite of food halfway to her mouth, color rising to her cheeks. Fergus and Nathaniel guffawed, Malcolm resisted laughing out loud, and Fiona merely shook her heard in derision. 

“That explains that,” said Fergus. Then he glanced over at Malcolm again. “The other reason I ask, we can talk about in my study.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow, and then nodded. “When?”

“Whenever. Now, if you’re done eating. I’d like Fiona to speak with us, too.” When Fergus looked over at the mage, she gave a slight nod, and then stood up to indicate that she was done.

The three of them left the new Wardens and the dining hall behind. The idea of being in Bryce Cousland’s study bothered Malcolm less than it had the last time. He hoped that the pain would continue to diminish. Perhaps, one day, he’d feel almost normal in this castle. Once they were all in the study, Fergus started rummaging around in the desk drawers before coming up with a sheaf of papers, folded and sealed. He handed them to Malcolm. “These are orders and messages from Riordan. I already told you the one he wants you to concentrate on, and he told me not to give you the rest until you’ve, well, rested from your journey.”

Malcolm took the papers, wondering what other orders Riordan had. Most likely, they weren’t orders at all if he’d told Fergus they weren’t important for him to see right away. Probably just a boring message or two, then. “What was it that you wanted to talk about?”

Fergus sat back in his chair behind the desk. “Riordan told me about what the Grey Wardens are doing in regards to Morrigan. Searching for her, I mean. He didn’t tell me why. All I know is that something odd happened between you and her the night before the Battle of Denerim and none of us ever saw her again. I was wondering if the Chantry knew and you had a phylactery to track her or something.”

Malcolm nearly shot to his feet, even though he’d just sat down. “You haven’t told the Chantry, have you?”

“No, and I had no intentions of doing so. It’s a Grey Warden matter. I was merely curious. Calm down, little brother.” Fergus’s mouth twitched in a near-smile. “Besides, after seeing those templars in action earlier, somehow I don’t think they’d be any good at catching Morrigan.”

“No, they wouldn’t. They’d probably die. Painfully.” Malcolm sighed. “And since Morrigan has always been an apostate, there’s no phylactery to use in tracking her.”

“That’s problematic,” said Fergus. 

Malcolm took the ring Morrigan had given him off the thong around his neck and held it up. “We have this, though.”

“If I can figure out how to reverse it,” said Fiona.

Fergus gave each of them puzzled looks. “What do you mean?”

“Morrigan gave it to me during the Blight. She said she could use it to find me if I ever got separated from the group. Previous to that, Flemeth had given it to Morrigan so that she could find Morrigan. Now, Morrigan insisted that she deactivated it, and then changed its properties so that she could trace me.” He squinted as he questioned the veracity of the witch’s claims. “I don’t think I have a reason to doubt that.”

“Probably not,” Fiona said. 

Fergus held his hand out to Malcolm, and Malcolm handed him the ring for inspection. “Doesn’t feel like anything special,” said the teyrn as he rolled it around his palm. “Just a ring.” He frowned. “You really think it can be used to track you? And that it wasn’t given out of sentiment?”

“Not out of sentiment, no.” Malcolm gazed down at his fingers, which played with the edges of the papers he held in his hands.

“I think it does as Morrigan said it does,” said Fiona, after Malcolm fell silent. “There’s a powerful magic in it, one that resists change. We’re hoping that I and perhaps the other mages can change its properties and reverse it so it can be used to track Morrigan.”

“And if not...” Malcolm shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll have to rely on the hunting parties.”

“You don’t sound very confident of them,” said Fergus.

“You’ve _met_ Morrigan. Somehow, if she doesn’t want to be found, I don’t think she will be. But, there are other ways we could track her whereabouts. Warden stuff, though, so I probably shouldn’t talk about it much.”

“Fair enough. I won’t pry. Wouldn’t be fair to you.”

“One thing that I do wonder, though, is how much information we have about Flemeth here. I mean, the earliest mention we have of her is from here at Highever.” Malcolm’s eyes opened wide. “The castle was even around back then. If anything about her legend is true, she probably walked these very halls.”

Fergus blinked at him and slowly said, “I will never look at my home the same way again.”

“What if she sat his this study?” Malcolm said, now wondering where else Flemeth had been. 

“Not helping.” Fergus sighed. “Some of the books in the library survived Arl Howe’s occupation of the castle, surprisingly. Plus there’s all the volumes in the chapel. Can you imagine that? The chapel was completely intact when the staff returned. Nothing in there was touched. It was even locked shut. He certainly never really seemed the religious sort. I suppose we could ask Nathaniel for his thoughts. Although, he isn’t very fond of his father, which really does speak in his favor, now that I think of it. Anyway, what I meant by that is I can start looking through them and have some others look through them as well. Discreet people, mind you, just looking for mentions of Flemeth.”

Malcolm nodded. “That would be helpful. Really helpful, in fact.” He wished he could dedicate his time to untangling the mystery of Morrigan and Flemeth and eventually finding Morrigan. He had a strong suspicion that the key to finding the witch was the past. But he was fairly certain it wasn’t just the past of humans that was important. Elves, and maybe dwarves, too. All the inhabitants of Thedas. And, considering the fact that Flemeth had been able to shapeshift into a high dragon, it meant that at some point, Flemeth had known the _soul_ of a high dragon. The soul of a high dragon. “Holy Maker,” he said to himself, sitting up stiffly in the chair.

“What?” Fergus and Fiona asked at the same time.

“Flemeth. Morrigan. Shapeshifting,” Malcolm said, unable to put his thoughts together coherently. He jumped to his feet and paced the small confines of the study. 

Fergus calmly watched Malcolm pace, happy to wait for the eventual outcome of his brother’s thought processes. Fiona, however, wasn’t so patient. “Yes, both Morrigan and Flemeth were shapeshifters,” she prodded.

Malcolm turned on his heel and faced the elf. “Morrigan once tried to explain shapeshifting to me. She said that in order to turn into an animal, you had to know its soul. That’s the only way you can do it. When we fought Flemeth—”

This time, Fiona’s eyes widened. “She was a high dragon. Holy Maker.”

“A little help over here,” said Fergus.

“The Old Gods were high dragons,” Malcolm explained. “At least, that’s the form the Tevinter Imperium worshipped them in. And, archdemons appear as corrupted high dragons during Blights, so that indicates that the ancient Tevinter suppositions were probably true.”

Fergus stroked his goatee and nodded. “So what are you two thinking?”

“Flemeth could be a freed Old God, for one,” said Fiona. “One that the Tevinters never worshipped, and therefore one that didn’t get imprisoned by the Maker—if that part of the Chant of Light is true.”

“But the elves knew her, too,” said Malcolm. “What had Líadan called her? The...”

“ _Asha’belannar_ ,” Fiona supplied. “The ancient elves had an entire pantheon of gods. Like the human stories, elves also have a story of gods that were imprisoned. Well, the elven story says that all of the elven gods were imprisoned except for one—Fen’Harel. He’s supposedly the god who trapped them all. But legend says that it happened before the Tevinters first appeared at Arlathan.”

“Could she be this Fen’Harel?” Malcolm asked, wondering if they should be asking Líadan. “Though, it sounds like this Fen’Harel is a guy.”

“Somehow I doubt that gender matters much to a god,” Fiona said, amusement evident in her voice and at the quirk of her lips.

“Did the Old Gods have a specific gender?” asked Fergus.

“Biologically, high dragons are always females,” Malcolm said. Then, “She could be both. Fen’Harel and an Old God, I mean. They aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“Or neither,” said Fiona.

Malcolm frowned. “What does that make Morrigan?”

The door to the study opened without a single knock to warn them. Líadan strode in, dressed in her drakeskin armor, some of the color back in her cheeks. “A selfish bitch,” she said in answer to Malcolm’s question as she settled into a chair near the fire, as was her habit. At the shocked looks from the others, she raised her hands to ward off their objections. “What? All of you know I’m not a fan of her anymore after what happened. I’m not going to hide that fact.”

“Do you have to be so blunt about it?” Malcolm asked. 

Líadan fixed him with a level look. “Yes.”

Fergus snorted. “We wouldn’t have it any other way, my friend.”

Malcolm dropped into another chair—Líadan had usurped his—and sighed.

She ignored his plight and asked the others, “So what did I miss? You were talking about Fen’Harel? The elven trickster god? That’s the part I caught while I was walking here. That, and the bit about Morrigan.”

As Malcolm contented himself with glaring at Líadan for stealing his chair, among other reasons, Fiona and Fergus told the newcomer what they’d been discussing. Ignoring Malcolm’s glares, Líadan took in what the others explained, even laughing a bit when they’d discussed Fen’Harel’s gender. When they were done, she said, “Fen’Harel is also known as the Dread Wolf.”

“Morrigan’s favorite shapeshifting form is a wolf,” Malcolm said. “But, that could be coincidence, considering wolves were really prevalent in the Korcari Wilds. We got attacked by them several times outside Ostagar.” It was how she’d left him, in fact. In the form of a wolf. Alistair had mentioned seeing her in that form, looking sad. No, not sad. Baleful. Menacing. Calculating, maybe. Had that been before or after she’d gone to Zevran? His frown moved from Líadan to the flames behind her, no longer annoyed at the elf, but someone else.

Fergus nodded. “So did my scouting party.”

“Still a connection of sorts, though,” said Fiona. “Maybe coincidence, maybe something more significant. Something to consider.”

Líadan caught Malcolm’s eyes. “There’s a lot of things to consider.”

Her words didn’t quite register with him as he continued to try to figure out the Morrigan problem. Flemeth problem. Witch problem, really. He supposed he should start considering the fact that Morrigan might be Flemeth, and might have been one in the same the entire time. Which, he had to admit, was a really creepy thought. Especially considering what he and Morrigan had... ugh. _Especially_ creepy. But, Flemeth had acted very much like Flemeth and had been too all-knowing when they’d first met her, and just after Ostagar, for her to be a non-entity that’d already switched her soul to live in Morrigan’s body. If Morrigan’s reluctance about leaving had been an act, it’d been a very good act. And Morrigan’s fear when she’d told him about Flemeth taking her body had been real.

Or a very good act.

“I need to figure out what was real,” he said out loud.

“Yes, you do,” said Líadan. “You definitely do.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

“It has been asked, ‘What are maleficarum? How shall we know them?’ I have been asked by this question as you. You have come to me for the wisdom of the Maker, but none have seen the Maker’s heart save Beloved Andraste. And so I have done as all mortals must, and looked to the words of His prophet for answers. And there, I found respite from a troubled mind.

For she has said to us, ‘Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.’ Therefore, I say to you, they who work magic which dominates the minds and hearts of others, they have transgressed the Maker’s law.

Also, Our Lady said to us, ‘Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker.’ And so it is made clear to me, as it should be to us all: That magic which fuels itself by harming others, by the letting of blood, is hated by the Maker.

Those mages who honor the Maker and keep his laws are welcome as brothers and sisters. Those who reject the laws of the Maker and the words of His prophet are apostate. They shall be cast out, and given no place among us.”

—from _The Sermons of Justinia I_

**Morrigan**

As a wolf, she left the army’s camp, slinking through the trees of the Wending Wood. As a raven, she watched the final battle from the skies and a hidden perch near the rooftop of Fort Drakon. At the final blow, she briefly transformed to her human form, to make sure nothing interfered with the last part of the ritual. She had risked too much, she had lost far too much, for it not to take in its final moments. As a raven, she left Denerim, flying to safety beyond the retreating remnants of the horde and the patrols of the army. As a human, she walked a meandering path throughout lower Thedas, to lead those who chased her far and wide in order to spread them out thinly. Their net would be cast wide, but its holes would be gaping, and that way, she could continue to evade them. 

For she knew she would be chased by many. Her plan had not gone as she’d thought. She had seen Malcolm’s face as soon as Riordan awakened, and realized instantly that Malcolm knew what she’d done. And she knew that, eventually, he would come after her. He would feel responsible, though it had been Zevran’s decision in the end, and he would seek to right the wrong he believed existed. All of the Grey Wardens would know, and she and her unborn child were in danger. Enough danger that she would not only have to escape Ferelden, but all of Thedas. To begin her trail, she journeyed through the Frostbacks, making sure she was seen. From there she went north, taking a ship from Jader to Cumberland, again taking care to be noticed on the docks at the port. 

For a moment, as she’d stood on the docks and breathed in the salty air, she thought of Malcolm. The same tang of salt had been on the air when he had refused her, the same breaking of waves on rocks echoing between them in the silence left after he had said no. The ocean reminded her of him, because he’d grown up next to the sea, and because it had been the sound ringing in her ears when she left him. She had thought him predictable like the tides, but had failed to see the hidden tempest that appeared in the midst of apparent calm. His refusal had been a rogue wave to her. It had sent her reeling and scrambling for safe footing, where before she had felt no danger. 

If only he had seen it her way and agreed to her plan. The separation had hurt far more than she had ever predicted, even though she’d known it was coming. She just hadn’t thought it would happen so soon and that they would part on such bad terms. One solace she’d had—before the refusal—was that the child she would have borne would have been his. A reminder of both what had to be done and of the love she’d once had for him. Instead, she’d had to do the ritual with the Antivan elf. While not unpleasant, Zevran had not been the man intended for completing the ritual. But she couldn’t let the plan fail, and she’d worked with what she’d had available. And so twice in one night, she had betrayed her love. She knew that if Malcolm knew half as much as she did, he would have agreed. But he wasn’t ready for that knowledge, even if it meant his refusal. Truth be told, even she wasn’t ready for the knowledge, yet she had to know, because that was how it had to be.

As Morrigan traveled from Cumberland and into the Vimmark Mountains, she began to suspect it was more than just Grey Wardens after her. As a raven, she eavesdropped on many conversations of travelers along the Imperial Highway, flying between the Planasene Forest and the road itself. Rumors of templars and Tevinters, searching for a woman of her description. Not working together, but searching for the same woman nonetheless. Interesting. 

And then there was the matter of her mother. While a mortal form of Flemeth’s had been defeated, Morrigan had no doubts that the old crone still lived in some way or another. She also knew that Flemeth was after her as well, either for her or for the child she now carried within her. When the Old God’s soul had found its intended new body, Morrigan had glimpsed just a tiny fraction of the power it held. What Flemeth had planned to do with this child, Morrigan had no idea. But she had no intentions of allowing Flemeth to have it. Flemeth needed to be destroyed, Morrigan had decided, and this child could be the key.

Of course, she needed to find out just what Flemeth was. She knew the ancient legend of the wronged wife of a Fereldan bann. She’d told it, in fact, many times. But, Flemeth was older than that, much older. The woman was no mere abomination. Perhaps she wasn’t even human, though she’d given the appearance as such. Flemeth’s ability to shapeshift into a high dragon had been a clue, though one Morrigan had yet to make full use of. There were many things she needed to research and she had no place to do it, not while on the run. She knew of Flemeth’s ties to the Dalish, and possibly the elves before they had become Tevinter slaves in the ancient ages. Flemeth most likely knew the elves from the time of Arlathan, the city Tevinter had buried whole underneath the ground when they conquered the elves. 

And if the city had been swallowed whole by the ground, then it was still intact. She just had to find a way inside. Aside from leading her to discovering Flemeth’s true identity, the ancient elves had known magic far beyond what any human or elf was capable of today. There must be some way to reach another place, a safe place, away from Thedas and Flemeth, a place where she could raise her child and prepare it for what would come. But first, she had to find Arlathan. No, she realized, first she had to safely deliver this child. She would need a safe haven to study, to learn, and in some ways, to be a mother. And since she needed to find Arlathan, she would have to find the Dalish.

As a raven, she flew across the treetops, searching for signs of the Dalish aravels. The clan she found would need to be sympathetic, to seek knowledge of the ancient elves more stridently than most other clans. The clan would also need not have heard of her and the various factions that searched for her. And they would need her help, so that she would be able to provide that help, and in gratitude, they would allow her to stay without questioning her. For a month, as a raven and a wolf, she traveled through the trees of the Planasene Forest, the rugged foothills of the Vimmark Mountains, and the plains outside of Wildervale. In an unnamed forest equidistant from Wildervale, Tantervale, and Starkhaven, she found the Dalish clan she needed. 

They had many sick and injured, and Morrigan had a good idea as to why.

As a wolf, she padded confidently into the middle of the camp, the tattooed elves watching her warily, gathering their children behind them. Morrigan trotted straight to the keeper, a bald man who wore robes and a perpetual scowl. She came to a stop in front of him and shifted back into her normal shape of a woman. Soon, she noted sadly, she would have to stop shifting, for her safety and for the child’s.

“ _Asha’belannar_!” a bystander gasped.

“I am not your Woman of Many Years,” Morrigan said, not bothering to look in the direction of the speaker. She wanted to say that she wasn’t her mother, but that would come later.

“I am Zathrian, keeper of the Ra’asiel clan, its guide and preserver of our ancient lore. And who, exactly, are you?” the keeper said, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Beside and just behind him, a young female elf narrowed her eyes as well.

“Morrigan,” the witch replied, and then motioned toward where the sick elves moaned on cots in an open-air infirmary. “And I see that you are in need of some... assistance. I may be able to provide such assistance. What is going on?”

The keeper opened his mouth, a look in his old eyes as if he were going to reject her offer out of hand, and then something changed. Instead of a rejection, he sighed a capitulation, and then said, “This will require some... explanation.” He inclined his head toward the infirmary. “Please follow me.” As they walked, he talked to her about his clan’s situation over the groaning of the sick and dying. “The clan came to this forest one month ago, as is our custom when we enter this part of the Free Marches. We are always wary of the dangers in the forest, but we did not expect the werewolves would be lying in wait for us. They ambushed us, and though we drove the beasts back, much damage was done. Many of our warriors are dying as we speak. Even with all our magic and healing skill, we will eventually be forced to slay our brethren to prevent them from becoming beasts.”

Morrigan nodded, as if she understood. Which she did, and far more than the keeper suspected. For one, the werewolf illness seemed a bit like the Blight sickness. It either killed you outright or turned you into a darkspawn ghoul. When someone contracted the taint, you killed them without question. She had witnessed it many times during the Blight, and when the bard had died, it had struck her far harder than she let on. Morrigan had realized it could have been her, that her daily potion she’d taken for immunity from the taint could have faltered, and she would have had to ask Malcolm to kill her out of mercy, before she lost her mind and became a darkspawn. But she hadn’t fallen ill with the Blight sickness, this wasn’t the Blight any longer, and she had moved on. Besides, these elves suffered from something far different in the werewolf sickness. There were a few mentions in Thedas history of werewolves and the presence of such werewolves didn’t have many causes. Demons, but she would have known immediately if all of these people were possessed by such things. Plus, the illness wasn’t immediate, as it would be were it from demonic possession, as it’d been in Dane’s time. No, it was something else. An illness, then. “And you know of no help for them?” she asked.

The elf gave her a slight shrug. “The affliction is a curse that runs rampant in their blood, bringing a great agony, and then ultimately either death or a transformation into something monstrous. The only thing that could help them must come from the source of the curse itself, and that... that would be no trivial task to retrieve.”

“No, it would not,” said Morrigan. Nor had she any inclination of retrieving anything for anyone except herself or her unborn child. While Malcolm and Alistair had helped all sorts of people by fetching things for them and other menial tasks during the Blight, she was not them. Her purpose here was to make these people indebted to her so that they would provide their help without question and without revealing her presence to anyone outside the clan. As the Dalish were insular, and she knew many of their customs thanks to Líadan, it made the elves her best hope. However, she would have to find a solution to this mess that put her in the least amount of danger, and traipsing through a forest filled with werewolves while intent on killing their leader seemed ill-advised—because she already knew that it was exactly that this keeper wanted. “What would one be retrieving, by chance?” she asked anyway, for show.

Zathrian led her over to a place in front of what she assumed was his aravel, as it was the most ornate, and the oldest. After he’d motioned for her to sit, and followed suit by finding a chair for himself, he said, “Within the forest dwells a great wolf. We call him Witherfang. It was within him that the curse originated, and through his blood that it has been spread. If he is killed and his heart brought to me, perhaps I could destroy the curse—”

“Perhaps?” Morrigan folded her arms over her chest, aware of how her abdomen now swelled, whereas months ago it had been perfectly flat. It was a weakness of sorts, she realized, to be carrying a child. It would limit her ability to shapeshift, to fight effectively, and even to appear intimidating, something she hadn’t had trouble with since emerging from childhood.

“I cannot be sure, as we have not tried it before,” Zathrian answered after a moment’s stumble. “The task has proven too dangerous for us. I sent some hunters into the forest a week ago, but they have not returned. I cannot risk any more of my clan.”

Morrigan mulled over the keeper’s words and his reactions to her questions. He was hiding something, that much was clear. From what she could tell, he knew far more about this werewolf problem than he was letting on. That, and she could tell that he knew Witherfang personally. Yes, he’d met this werewolf. Knowing she appeared indifferent, she studied the man through half-lidded eyes. An aura of magic surrounded him. It was normal in a mage and another mage could always see it unless they’d been completely drained by a holy smite. But this elf’s particular aura was different. It was worn-out and tired, but not from age alone, as Wynne’s had often been. No, it was exhausted from a long-lived spell, and it seemed it relied on that spell to sustain both Zathrian’s life and his magic. Very interesting. This keeper was bound to this werewolf. Morrigan decided that she would go speak with this Witherfang. She would travel as a wolf and the werewolves would leave her be as long as she was intent on peace. “If I help you, you must help me,” she finally told him.

“What would you ask of me?”

“Protection within your clan,” Morrigan said. “Allow me to remain with your clan until I deem it is safe for me and my child to leave. You would also allow me complete access to whatever lore you have available. I am searching for something, and the elves might have the key. Last, you and your clan will tell no one of me. You have not seen me.”

Zathrian gave her a solemn nod of his head. “If you can help us, Morrigan, then I will accept your terms.”

“Then I shall return.” Morrigan stood up and shapeshifted into her wolf form, and then trotted out of the camp as easily as she’d trotted in. It took her a while to find the werewolves, but eventually she did, from their clawing at the Veil more than actual physical tracking on her part. As she’d suspected, these werewolves were magical in origin, more so than any demon-caused kind. It seemed Zathrian had done something with a spirit from the other side of the Veil. Most likely he’d bound it to some living being on this side of the Veil, trapping it. At first it would have been as a curious child, but eventually it would become angry at being locked in this immutable realm. 

She followed a small group of the werewolves into an ancient ruin. At first they paid no mind to her, but they noticed her following after she didn’t give up on tailing them. Finally, one confronted her, and she shifted back into her human form to speak with him. Her transformation brought forth snarls and growls, but they didn’t bother her. She wasn’t in any danger. “Bring me to Witherfang,” she told the leader. “I would speak with him.”

“No, our lady is not—”

“Do not question me,” said Morrigan, even as she registered that they believed Witherfang a female and not a male as Zathrian had said. “You have seen merely one of my abilities. You truly do not wish to see the rest. I promise you that I will not harm your lady.”

The leader snarled at her, but acquiesced without further verbal argument. Morrigan allowed herself to feel a bit of satisfaction. Good. That part of her plan had worked. If her suspicions were true, it wouldn’t take much more manipulation on her part to make both parties in this magical mess fix everything themselves. She would hardly have lifted a finger, but she would be the one who brokered it all. Had this situation happened during the Blight, she was sure Malcolm and his fool brother would have had to have slain half of the werewolves before the wolves asked for them to stop. Well, not exactly. Malcolm probably would have tried to talk to the beasts, but ultimately failed because they were, by their very nature, _beasts_. But he would have tried. And then there would’ve been the slaughter, because for some reason people and beings who opposed Malcolm never really seemed to learn that he wasn’t much one for being on the losing side of a battle. Yes, with her alone, this would be less bloody, and in turn, much faster.

As she followed the werewolf, she wondered, ever briefly, what sort of joke Malcolm would have cracked about this place. And if he hadn’t said anything, his brother would have. Then no matter which brother spoke, Líadan would have mocked them. 

Ah, Líadan. Had it been another time and place, had Morrigan not needed the soul of the Old God to battle Flemeth, she and the Dalish elf could easily have been near-sisters. Of all her traveling companions from the Blight, she’d identified with the young elf the most. And, aside from Malcolm, she missed her the most and felt as guilty at the betrayal she knew Líadan must have felt. The anger, as well, she for knew there would be anger. Morrigan wondered if the elf would find her way to Malcolm’s side as Morrigan had once been. The undercurrent had been there, the potential for it. Morrigan had seen it, though Malcolm and even Líadan were entirely clueless to the matter. Or they had been, at least. There was no telling, now. Part of her hoped that they did find their way, because as much as she loved Malcolm, she could not be with him. Not now, not ever. Her task was too important, and aside from that, he could never trust her again. In the end, she would only hurt him, and he would only hurt her. In truth, she should not have allowed their love to form in the first place. 

A memory struck her—loping through the mist and the trees in the Korcari Wilds, listening with sharp canid ears to the sounds of men having conversations. Catching glimpses of the Grey Warden and his recruits as they trekked through the Wilds, searching out darkspawn and the ancient treaties. The catch of a shaft of mid-afternoon sunlight on reddish blond hair, the play of sorrowful lips attempting to form a grin around a deep sadness. Dark blue eyes awash with their own tragic memories, tempered with a tiny, unrelenting spark of hope. And then her human fingertips touching his cheek, the first time she had touched him, the disconcerting feeling of warmth and being and rightness nearly sending her stumbling backward.

She should have known, then, that they were dangerous together. Dangerous to the world and to each other and she would do well to avoid him. But she hadn’t. She’d been weak and she would not let that happen again. He had made sacrifices enough, while hers were only beginning. Her actions at the end of the Blight and now, he would see them as betrayal, but she knew she was saving him. And because she loved him, she would continue to do what she had to.

The werewolf brought her into a chamber and Witherfang was called. When the being walked out, a woman-spirit with clothing and hands of tree roots, Morrigan knew what Zathrian had done. What remained to be discovered was why he’d done it and how exactly he could reverse it. She doubted killing this Witherfang would do it. The spirit would be cursed to be bound with another corporeal being, most likely another wolf, and lead to more of the same problems. Morrigan sighed. “You are a spirit, I take it?” she asked. “And Witherfang?”

The spirit closed her eyes briefly as she nodded. “Yes.”

Morrigan took in the werewolves, and then returned her gaze to the spirit. No more could be done without Zathrian. “I will return.” They let her go without argument, as if they understood. Morrigan suspected that they did. When she found Zathrian waiting outside the ruins, she had to stop herself from chuckling.

The keeper looked at her empty hands and scowled. “Where is the heart?”

She allowed a smirk to tug at the corner of her mouth. “Come now. We both know that whatever you did won’t be fixed by simply removing Witherfang’s heart from _her_ chest. Tell me, what exactly was it that you’ve done with this spirit that I just met down there?”

“She is the powerful spirit of this ancient forest that I summoned long ago and bound in the body of the wolf,” Zathrian replied after hesitating for a moment. “Her nature is that of the forest itself, beautiful and terrible, serene and savage, maiden and beast. She is the Lady of the Forest and Witherfang both, two sides of a single being. The curse came first from her. Those she afflicted with it mirrored her own nature, becoming savage beast as well as human.”

“And why would you do such a thing?”

“You were not there!” Zathrian shouted, throwing his arms into the air. “You did not see... what they did to my son. To my daughter. And so many others. You are not Dalish! How can you know how we had to struggle to be safe? How could I have let their crimes go unanswered?”

“You have not. They who committed the crimes were punished long ago. Now, ‘tis your own people who suffer,” said Morrigan, her tone mild, the condemnation reserved for the meaning of the words themselves.

Zathrian glared at her, and then said, “I have sworn to protect my people, and I shall.” He looked as if he had more to say, but stopped. Perhaps he’d thought better of it and realized that if he stayed on his current path, his people would continue to suffer and die.

Morrigan regarded him for a moment. “Come with me and speak with her. I suspect the two of you have much to talk about if you truly wish to save your people.” She turned and began to walk back into the ruin, not bothering to check and see if the elf followed her. 

He did.

When they got inside, the Lady of the Forest had to call her werewolves off Zathrian before they tore him apart. Once that matter had been sorted out, Morrigan said to the Lady, “Zathrian said he summoned you and bound you to a wolf?” She knew Zathrian hadn’t been forthcoming in all the details, especially the parts where the old magic was concerned.

“And so he did. Witherfang and I are bound as one being. But such powerful magic could not be accomplished without Zathrian’s own blood.” The spirit switched her gaze from Morrigan to the elf, becoming accusatory. “Your people believe you have rediscovered the immortality of their ancestors, Zathrian, but that is not true. So long as the curse exists, so do you.”

“No! That’s not how it is!” Zathrian shouted.

Morrigan ignored him. “What do you mean?” she asked the spirit.

“I am not sure,” came the answer. “I do know that the curse would not end with Zathrian’s death. His life, however, relies on its existence. And I believe his death plays a part in its ending.”

The witch turned her gaze to the keeper. “Do you fear death so much, elf?”

“I...” Zathrian fell silent and looked around the ruined cavern. “Perhaps I have... lived too long. This hatred in me is like an ancient, gnarled root. It has consumed my soul.” His eyes flicked toward the spirit and back to Morrigan. “I will end this. Return to my clan. You will know when it is done—the sick will rise from their beds. And I... will be dead. Tell my clan that I am no longer of this world. Tell Lanaya, my apprentice, that she is to take my place as keeper.”

Morrigan nodded to him once, and then left the cavern, not wishing to watch whatever would happen next. Within minutes, there was a discharge of magic and a snap in the air felt but not heard. It was done. She shifted into a wolf and trotted back to the camp to give them the news. By the time she arrived, the elves who had been moaning in pain when she’d left were up and about, blood-spattered still, but no longer sick. She shifted back into a woman, feeling a tinge of exhaustion from all the shifting back and forth she’d done recently, and looked for this Lanaya. One of the elves brought her to a young woman who had the same tattoo design on her face that Líadan had. A follower of Andruil, then. Morrigan approved. The apprentice, now keeper, was the same young woman who’d been standing near her and Zathrian when they’d conversed earlier that day. Morrigan told the young elf what had happened between Zathrian and the werewolves, and what Zathrian’s wishes for her had been.

“That explains why the sick are now well,” said Lanaya. “It will be difficult to fill Zathrian’s place. He was our keeper for many centuries and will be sorely missed. But I am keeper now. Let me say it officially, then: I hereby swear to uphold the terms of the agreement you came to with Zathrian in return for your help.”

“Thank you,” Morrigan replied, surprised at how grateful she truly felt. She would be hidden, for now, and safe. There would be no failure, as too much had already been sacrificed. And she had much to plan.

Lanaya inclined her head. “ _Andaran atish’an, falon. Na’lenen, Cuán la Conrí, hamin’reth in emm’arla._ ”

Morrigan peered curiously at the newly-appointed keeper, wondering if her Elvish needed more work than she thought. “ _Abelas? Sa’len, ir’din._ ”

To her surprise, Lanaya laughed, not unkindly. “ _Ma inan’din_?” Then the elf shook her head, the departing laughter leaving a knowing smile in its wake. “ _Ma’nan in melana_.”

**Marius**

Marius had arrived in Minrathous on a torturously hot and humid day. It made him wish for the Silent Plains—while those fields were just as murderously hot, at least it was a dry heat. Instead, in the seaport of a city, the water remained in the air, causing sweat to cling to his skin, soak the padding underneath his armor, and make everything generally uncomfortable. The city had more refugees than the last time he’d visited, it seemed. The war with the qunari must have gotten worse yet again. The refugees from the outlands were more or less a permanent presence in the city, the ebb and flow of their numbers coming and going with the tide of the qunari warriors from Seheron. The qunari were a persistent blight to Tevinter, second only to the darkspawn themselves. At times, Marius wished the qunari had thoroughly conquered his homeland.

Now was one of those times.

He’d barely been a week in his home city before soldiers had come knocking at his door. For all he’d been discreet in his inquiries and research, he’d somehow not been good enough. When he’d opened the shabby door at the inn where he’d been staying, the soldiers piled in and took custody of him and his belongings, including the research that he’d done. That, at least, he’d written in code. As they dragged him away and into a cart, one of the soldiers saw fit to inform him that he was being taken into the _protective_ custody of Archon Vespasian. 

Protective custody was never good. And never really that protective, either.

And it hadn’t been. If the ancient Magisters who’d broken into the Golden City had been anything like Vespasian’s torturers, Marius was damn sure that they entirely deserved being turned into darkspawn. Vespasian’s handpicked men had been at Marius for weeks, trying to pry both the Grey Warden cipher and the reason behind all his questions. Why are you asking about the Old Gods? Why are you asking about the blood magic that allowed the Magisters through the Veil? Why are you seeking proof of the Old Gods? What do you know of this Blight in Ferelden? What Old God was it that was destroyed? Why are you not telling us the truth?

Today, they had broken him. He’d answered a single question, the one about which Old God had led the darkspawn horde in the Blight just ended in Ferelden—Urthemiel. And apparently, they was all they needed. Within minutes, they had cleaned him up and put him back into his cell, confused and clueless. They could have obtained that information from any number of sources. It was all over Thedas. But somehow, he’d told them something. Confirmed something for them, merely by confirming common knowledge.

When the door to his cell opened again, admitting the Archon himself, Marius realized that the current archon was a man who believed in tradition. Unfortunately, it was a tradition that had resulted in the First Blight. 

“I have been speaking with someone,” Vespasian said.

“I’ve been trying _not_ to speak with several someones,” Marius replied.

The archon steepled his long fingers together in front of him. “You Wardens, always joking. Such gallows humor all of you have.”

“Apparently you’ve not met an Anders Warden.”

“No, I’ve not had the privilege, Marius.” The bottoms of the archon’s soft slippers scuffed lightly against the rough stone floor as he paced the room. “But we’re off track already. I’ve spoken with someone and they’ve told me something very... intriguing.”

And then Marius noticed a hooded figure dwelling in the dark shadows near the doorway. Light from a guttering candle reflected on striking eyes under the hood, golden and dangerous. Marius desperately wanted to know what in the Maker’s name it was that Vespasian had heard—and who he’d heard it _from_ , especially if it were this figure in the shadows—but he didn’t want the archon to know that. It would give him even more of an upper hand than he already had. So he asked nothing.

But Vespasian knew. “And here you are, trying to appear as if you don’t care, but you do. You want to know very badly, in fact. But, I will not torture you so. I will tell you. I was informed that Urthemiel did not die when your fellow Grey Warden struck that final blow in Ferelden. Urthemiel still lives and he is no longer an archdemon. He is not a darkspawn. He is not tainted. And he is on Thedas.”

“The archdemon was slain by the elf Zevran in the Battle of Denerim,” said Marius.

Vespasian held up a finger, as if Marius had just made a very fine point. “Ah! Yes, he was. The archdemon, yes. Urthemiel, no. So, you see, we must find him. Tevinter must have him. We shall look for him, though I was also told that he is not yet reborn. You know of this, yes? You know that your order ultimately failed?”

Marius said nothing. That duplicitous witch had caused the Wardens to fail. Astrid blamed the boy Malcolm, but Marius did not. He blamed the witch and he blamed the elf they’d given credit to for ending the Blight. But Vespasian was right in one thing—they had failed. And Marius knew that he had failed, because he had not kept the information about Morrigan and her Old God child from the archon. Somehow, the man had found out, and it had been his duty to keep exactly that from happening.

“Tevinter will rise again.” Vespasian’s inky black eyes shined brightly in the flickering lamplight as he raised them toward the low ceiling. Then he pinned his gaze on Marius. “Too bad you won’t be around to see it, Warden. You have outlived your usefulness. May _your_ Maker shine His Light upon you when you travel to His side, if He isn’t too busy screaming that we’ve taken His throne yet again in the name of the Old Gods.” The archon made a small motion with his fingertips, and one of the guards drew his sword and moved forward.

In between the steps the guard took, a voice emerged from the hooded figure. A woman’s voice, roughened by time and temper and sadness, wizened and wise. The words, in Arcanum, drifted from her lips to his ears and he knew only he could hear them. “You are to be my messenger, Marius. Tell your Maker this: one of my children will soon be reborn, Beauty in a little wolf, twinned with a wolf king. From this, change will come to His world, and vengeance will be mine.” The old voice sharpened into a command for the archon. “Send the message.”

“Kill him,” Vespasian told the guard.

So this is how it ends, Marius realized. Not in the Deep Roads, but at home.

**Astrid**

“Her Perfection will see you now,” said the templar. 

Astrid nodded a thanks to the man as he motioned to two other templars, who heaved open the heavy wooden doors that were the entrance to the Divine’s reception room. The Second Warden had left Weisshaupt Fortress just a week after the boy and his party and the witch hunters had departed. While they’d had permission, Astrid had not. While she was still a Grey Warden, as the taint could not be forsworn, she was fairly certain she was no longer Second Warden. But Georg had not listened to reason and they needed more than just Grey Wardens tracking down this maleficar. Wardens were not mage hunters. They were darkspawn hunters. Templars were trained for this sort of thing, and divinely inspired at that. They would be remiss were they not to use the Chantry in this hunt. And so she had taken it upon herself to gain an appointment with the Divine in Val Royeaux in order to start the Chantry’s hunt to run in conjunction with the Grey Wardens’.

When Astrid found herself in the presence of the Divine—a surprisingly short yet incredibly rotund middle-aged woman—she dropped to one knee. “Your Perfection,” she said, almost breathless. She’d never thought in all her life that she would be in the presence of the Most Holy, Divine Regula I. 

“Second Warden Astrid of the Anderfels,” said the Divine. “Rise.” Once Astrid had gotten to her feet, the Divine continued, “I am told that you bring news most dire. It is my understanding that the Blight was ended after the Battle of Denerim. What terrible news do you bring? Has another Blight started already?”

“Not exactly, Most Holy,” Astrid replied. “There is a woman, a mage, who traveled with the Fereldan Wardens who fought the last Blight. We have discovered that she is a maleficar.” Astrid almost gave the Divine more information than that, but her loyalty to the Grey Wardens kept her from divulging secrets. The Chantry did not need to know of the maleficar’s specific actions or the danger the woman ultimately posed. Her description, the fact that she was with child, and where the places where she’d last been seen. That would do. For now, anyway. If the months kept going along and she wasn’t found, it might change. “She is a great danger to us all.”

“A maleficar, you say?”

“Most assuredly, Your Perfection.”

“Then she must be stopped. And if she is truly a maleficar, she must be executed forthwith. You have done well to tell me this, Warden. Now, tell me all you know so that my templars may hunt her down and eradicate her accursed soul from this world.”

And Astrid told her.

Templar hunting parties set out from Val Royeaux within the hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish Translations:
> 
> -Lanaya: “Andaran atish’an, falon. Na’lenen, Cuán la Conrĺ, hamin'reth in emm’arla.”  
> “Enter this place in peace, friend. Your children, the little wolf and the wolf-king, rest safely in my home.”
> 
> -Morrigan: “Abelas? Sa’len, ir’din.”  
> “I’m sorry? One child, not more.”
> 
> -Lanaya: “Ma inan’din? Ma’nan in melana.”  
> “You don’t see? You’ll see in time.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

“There were seven Old Gods, great winged dragons that were said to rule over the ancient world.  The Chantry maintains that they are responsible for the original sin, that they turned humanity away from its true creator through deceit. Humanity’s faith faltered, and thus the Maker turned away from the world—but not before trapping the Old Gods in eternal prisons beneath the earth as punishment.

Scholars assume that the Old Gods must indeed have been real at one point, but most agree that they were likely actual dragons—ancient high dragons of a multitude not known today, and impressive enough to frighten ancient peoples into worshipping them. Some even claim that these dragons slumber as a form of hibernation, not as a result of the Maker’s wrath.

Regardless of the truth, legend maintains that even from their underground prisons, the Old Gods were able to whisper into the minds of men. The Archon Thalsian, first of the Magisters, who claimed to have contacted the Old God Dumat, used blood magic Dumat taught him to attain incredible power in Tevinter and declare himself the ruler of an Empire. In return, he established the first temples worshipping the Old Gods, and the dragons became equated everywhere with imperial power.”

—from _The Old Gods Rise Again_ by Sister Mary, Chantry scholar, 8:50 Blessed

**Malcolm**

It was raining.

And Vigil’s Keep was under attack.

“Why can’t we just arrive at any place normally?” Malcolm asked no one in particular. “I don’t think that’s too much to ask. Maybe a standard greeting party for once instead of a bunch of darkspawn or bandits or angry templars?”

“I prefer darkspawn to templars,” said Anders. “Just saying.”

“I’m with him on the templars versus darkspawn,” said Fiona.

“And I prefer darkspawn to bandits,” said Mhairi. Anders had rubbed off a bit too much on her, it seemed. Comments like that made Malcolm almost wish for the knight’s former days of extolling the glory and honor of the Grey Wardens.

“And I prefer normal greetings,” said Líadan.

Malcolm cast her a grateful look. “Thank you.”

“I also prefer that the darkspawn and templars and bandits kill each other and leave us out of it entirely,” she added, a thoughtful look to her face.

Malcolm made a frustrated sound and barely kept himself from covering his face with his hands. Their group had spent the last three days on the road, their trip extended by a run-in with less-than-intrepid bandits, followed by an encounter with a couple overzealous templars traveling from one chantry assignment to another. Around mid-afternoon the day before, the rain had started, and following that, tempers had started to fray. Of course, Malcolm and Líadan needed no extra goading for their tempers to get the best of them around each other as of late, and the other three Wardens had spent their time keeping them occupied with separate tasks around camp, or forcibly riding between them during the day. Highever had been left on high alert, on the lookout for both darkspawn and templars. With Fergus, Malcolm had discussed his plan on sending a few Wardens back to Highever for safety once he’d inspected the Vigil. If the attacks were getting that common in the area, it wouldn’t hurt. Also, having Wardens around would keep the occurrences of Blight sickness to a minimum. A few Wardens, against darkspawn, and a lot of of the time, against humans, were worth an entire company of trained regular soldiers. 

However, Malcolm had not expected to arrive at the Vigil to see it under attack from a large war party of darkspawn... and on fire. Well, parts of it were on fire, like most of the outlying buildings and one of the many towers. He scowled and surveyed the entrances, trying to figure out where they could go. He didn’t exactly have a huge number of people and he preferred it that no Wardens die or get injured if he could help it. Not that he wouldn’t feel that way about normal soldiers, but Wardens were a rare commodity. 

A soldier ran frantically up the small cart path connecting the Vigil to the main road. “The Vigil is under attack!” he shouted, as if Malcolm and his party weren’t already highly aware of that fact.

“You don’t say,” said Malcolm. 

“And here we were thinking the darkspawn were a typical Warden welcoming party,” said Anders.

Líadan slid off her horse and motioned the guard command to Gunnar, even as the dog had already moved toward the horse, anticipating the signal. “During the Blight, it _was_ the typical welcome.”

The soldier gave each of them a stricken look, that they would act so clearly mad while things were so clearly dire.

Mhairi took pity on the man and asked, “Do any of you take anything seriously?”

“No,” the others replied.

Then Malcolm did become serious and, as he dismounted, asked the soldier, “What’s happened?”

“Ser, the darkspawn launched a surprise attack on the Vigil. We had no warning! Most of the Orlesian Wardens have either been killed or kidnapped. And... and one of the darkspawn can talk.”

“Is that normal?” asked Anders. Líadan told him no, and then motioned for him to shut up. Malcolm knew it the Anders-being-quiet respite wouldn’t last long, but he was glad of it for the time being. More often than not, Anders’ sense of humor reminded him of either himself or Alistair. It both amused and annoyed him, and he’d started to wonder if that was how other people felt around him. Probably. He didn’t bother asking any of the others. Certainly not Líadan. Her reply was certain to be far less than flattering.

The soldier had mentioned the Orlesian Wardens, but not the Fereldan ones, Malcolm noticed. “Where’s Oghren?” he asked the man as he put his shield on his arm.

The man shrugged, the sword in his hand glinting from the lightning arcing across the sky. “I’m not sure, my lord. Last I saw, he was inside the keep somewhere, hacking away at the darkspawn.”

Sounds like Oghren, Malcolm thought. “Wait, did you say that the Orlesians were _kidnapped_?” he asked the soldier. “Did I hear that right?” Before the man could answer, a boom of thunder made the horses whinny and begin to stamp at the muddy ground. Malcolm held his hand up to the soldier to keep him from speaking and he looked down at Gunnar. “Keep them together, keep them away from the darkspawn, and bring them back to the Vigil when it’s safe.”

Gunnar barked his reply, and then proceeded to herd and lead the horses to safety.

“Is that a purebred mabari?” the soldier asked, wide-eyed. “I’ve heard about their intelligence, but I’d never thought dogs could understand complicated orders like that. Andraste’s ass, he’s smarter than some men I know!”

“Soldier!” scolded Mhairi. “Language!”

Malcolm’s head snapped around in surprise at the objection, while Anders lit into an immediate grin. Then the mage said, “You know, Mhairi, that really was one of the least imaginative and offensive swears I know. There are so many more at your disposal! There’s Andraste’s tits, for example, or, oh! My personal favorite—Andraste’s knickerweasels!”

“That’s different, anyway,” said Nathaniel.

Líadan and Malcolm snorted even as the storm raged above them and the battle raged before them.

“So, this darkspawn being kidnappers thing?” Malcolm asked the soldier again, ignoring the outraged look Mhairi was giving Anders, because if he looked, he would laugh out loud. And, as with many of the situations where he laughed out loud, it was hardly the appropriate time.

“Yes, my lord. When any of the Orlesians fell but were not mortally wounded, they swarmed around them and picked them up. I could hear the Wardens screaming as the darkspawn ran away with them!”

Malcolm scowled and glanced over at Fiona. “Do they even do that?”

“They kidnapped me, once, with a few other people,” the elf answered, a faraway look in her warm, brown eyes.

“Right, then.” From what Malcolm could see, they really had no choice except for the predictable front doors. Vigil’s Keep had been a fortress in Ferelden for longer even than Highever, and had the defenses to prove it. Treachery and subterfuge had caused the Vigil to fall to the Orlesians at the outset of the Occupation, and it had been one of the last forts to revert back to the Fereldans during the Rebellion. The most Malcolm and his group could hope for was that the darkspawn would be too distracted by whatever havoc they were wreaking inside to notice them attacking from the outside. Malcolm motioned his party forward, explaining what he knew of the Vigil, and that they’d be knocking right on the front door.

Anders and Fiona stayed to the rear of the party, Nathaniel drifting back with them, his longbow out with an arrow nocked, but not drawn. They came across scant resistance once they were inside the first wall, just a few genlocks accompanied by a couple shrieks. Between six Wardens, they really didn’t even break their stride toward the main entrance as they cut them down. Strangely, once they got to the main gates, they found them closed. “Oh, this is bad,” Malcolm said. “Were the darkspawn expecting us?” 

“I would be,” said Mhairi. “Where the Wardens are, darkspawn always seem to appear.”

“They’re attracted to us. It’s the taint thing again,” Malcolm explained.

“We’re really quite an attractive bunch, when you think about it.” Anders rapped the heavy wooden gate with his staff. “I mean, you’d think they’d have an open-door policy when it came to Grey Wardens because they love us so.”

Malcolm looked behind him at Nathaniel, the one person there who had spent the majority of his life living within the Vigil’s walls. With the horrific snake of a father, Malcolm remembered. Considering that, it was surprising that Nathaniel wasn’t as much into his drink as his brother Thomas had been. “Is there any other way in?”

“No.” Nathaniel squinted up at the barbican, and then sighed. “No, there’s not.”

“You don’t happen to have anything like a key, do you?”

Nathaniel scowled. “I’m just going to pretend you didn’t ask that, because otherwise, that was a really stupid question. Besides, what I’m wondering, and what all of us should be wondering, is how the darkspawn got inside without opening the gates.”

“I was a _hopeful_ question and I was getting to the other part,” said Malcolm. “And how did that soldier get outside, then, anyway? The way he was running, I doubt he shut the gates after him. Well, no, maybe he did to try and keep an obstacle between the darkspawn and himself.” They should’ve kept the soldier with them, Malcolm realized, but he’d thought a man so frightened would be better off away from his group. Soon enough, they, instead of the regular soldiers, would attract the attention of the darkspawn. “Too bad the former arl kept the defenses in good repair.”

“Ogre,” said Fiona.

“He could be like one,” Malcolm immediately replied. “Though that wouldn’t be my first description of the man. More like a sn—”

Fiona grabbed his arm and hauled him back, doing the same with Nathaniel on her other side. “No. I meant _ogre_. Coming this way. As in, a giant darkspawn that is going to break down this gate, so we should keep moving backwards.”

“Right.” Malcolm took the hint, and the extra momentum, and ran backwards with the rest of the group. Fiona’s prediction didn’t disappoint, and the ogre crashed through the gate within minutes, sending bits of splintered wood flying in all directions as its stomps made the ground tremble. On finally seeing the Wardens, it roared at them, meaty fists already swinging from side to side in an attempt to grab one of them in its favorite ‘punch the Warden in the face like a child’s doll’ attack. Malcolm had a strong dislike for that particular attack. He suspected Líadan did, too. The elf in question had easily leapt out of the way of the ogre’s hands and was now trying to get behind the beast. Malcolm scowled, annoyed that she’d go right back to a tactic that had nearly killed her less than a week ago. Then again, that tactic had worked many times during the Blight without any problems before, and outside Highever that one morning it failed, it’d really just been bad luck that’d gotten her caught.

But still. He didn’t like it. However, he could help to ensure her success, so he ran forward and started shouting insults at the ogre, using some of Alistair’s favorite ones to get the darkspawn’s attention. Amazing how the insinuation of Chantry parentage made the darkspawn instantly, and impossibly, angrier. He idly wondered how that sort of an insult would work on a normal person. Most likely, not so well. 

The ogre used its fists to hammer on the ground and the resulting tremors knocked him and Mhairi off their feet. Seeing an opening, the ogre advanced on them, shrugging off a paralysis spell from Anders. But with the ogre’s sole attention being on the two warriors struggling to their feet in front of him, it didn’t notice Líadan slip behind it. She jumped on the darkspawn’s back and plunged her daggers through its neck, and then rode the ogre’s back as he slid forward, headfirst, onto the ground. Ogre dead, Líadan leapt off and shot Malcolm a dazzling smile when she landed safely on her feet. And Malcolm realized that Líadan had _known_ he hadn’t liked her using that tactic and was, in fact, telling him ‘I told you so’ that she’d lived. 

“You stole that move from Riordan,” he said out loud, remembering the incident with the ogre in the Deep Roads, just a little before the _other_ incident where Líadan had hit him with lightning for the first time.

“Riordan can move like that?” Mhairi asked, shock in her tone as she shook her legs out after rising to her feet. “But he’s so... old.”

“He’s the same age that I am, I’ll have you know,” Fiona said from behind them. “Are you going to say that I’m old as well?”

Mhairi turned to face her, scrambling to get her foot out of her mouth. “No, but... I mean, you’re a mage, not a warrior.”

Malcolm winced at the particularly poor choice of words, and then waited to see who’d get to Mhairi first—Anders, Líadan, or Fiona. His coin went to Líadan.

But it was a good thing he hadn’t actually placed a bet, because it was Fiona who almost immediately had fire dancing outside Mhairi’s shield. “I’ve been battling darkspawn since before you were born, young lady. So, what was that about a mage, who is apparently also old, who fights darkspawn not being a warrior?”

“Nothing!” Mhairi cried. “A mistake! I apologize, Ser Mage.”

“Adding ‘young lady’ to part of your argument doesn’t really strengthen it if you’re objecting to the age thing,” Malcolm mumbled. Then he took a step back as he realized what he’d said and quickly amended, “I mean, maybe we should be running inside and paying more attention to the darkspawn. Since the door is open and all.” Taking his own advice, he set out into the fortress, feeling the heat of Fiona’s glare settling onto the back of his neck. He didn’t dare turn around to confirm it, nor did he really need to.

They found more soldiers inside, valiantly fighting the darkspawn and doing a fairly decent job of it despite not being Wardens. As the Wardens trotted through the gate, the darkspawn largely broke off their attacks on the soldiers and headed for their favorite foes. As a result, the yard was cleared of them in short time, much to the appreciation of the soldiers. The yard settled and soldiers conducting a clean-up of darkspawn bodies, the Wardens headed into the building. Indoors was largely intact. There were a few small fires here and there that one of the three mages they had with them easily put out. They followed the sound of fighting until they reached a large room that Malcolm judged to be in the middle of the castle. 

There, Malcolm finally saw the flaming red hair of Oghren. At hearing the footsteps of newcomers, the dwarf paused in his fighting long enough to turn and wave at them. Yes. Oghren, the only one of Malcolm’s friends who would cheerily wave while in the midst of killing darkspawn. Oh, how he’d dearly missed his dwarven friend. Malcolm and the others joined in the fight, and soon enough the darkspawn in the room were reduced to cooling corpses on the polished wood floor. 

Oghren rested his axe-head on the ground and leaned against the handle. “Ah, there you are. When these darkspawn started showing up, I thought ‘Just you wait until the proper Wardens show up and soon you’ll be spitting teeth out of your arses!’ Good on ya!”

“Oghren? We actually just followed the screaming until we found you,” Malcolm said. 

The dwarf smiled through his thick, braided beard. “Doubting your eyes, huh? I get like that, after the fifth bottle or so.”

Mhairi gaped at Oghren, as if not believing her eyes as the dwarf had said. Malcolm wondered if she’d either met Oghren before and didn’t think him an actual Warden, or had never actually seen a dwarf before. “I can’t believe the Wardens didn’t kick you out,” she said. 

Ah, so she’d met him before, Malcolm thought.

Oghren’s smile turned into a full-on grin. “If it isn’t the recruit with the great rack!”

The former knight rolled her eyes. “Yes, a prize for the Wardens, to be sure.”

The dwarf nodded knowingly. “I know, I know, too good to be true, right?” Then his eyes flicked over to Anders. “Hey, who’s the mage? Boyfriend?” He leered. “Should I leave you two alone?”

“Wow, a dwarf that smells like a brewery,” Anders said. “You never see that anywhere.”

“Huh, a mage comedian,” Oghren shot back. “Thought those normally died young.”

Malcolm could already tell that time spent with Anders and Oghren in close proximity to one another would be fun, indeed. “It’s good to see you again,” he said to the dwarf.

“I find that hard to believe,” Anders muttered.

“As do I,” Mhairi quickly agreed.

Malcolm fired both of them glares before turning to Oghren. “What’s happened here? How did the darkspawn get in without anyone noticing before it was too late? And without opening the gates?”

Oghren shrugged. “Best I can tell, they came from somewhere underground. Might be a Deep Roads entrance that’s been overlooked for centuries or something. Hard to tell, and probably not important right this second. But, I can tell you one thing—the buggers are talking. Well, just one, and he’s out on the battlements. I was chasin’ him when I got caught up by all these darkspawn here.” He motioned with his hand to indicate the bodies on the floor, and then continued, “I think it was shouting about the Father looking for the Warden, even though this place was crawling with Wardens. Orlesian Wardens didn’t seem to be that great at the Wardening thing, though, I’ll give it that.”

“Why, thank you,” said Fiona.

“To be fair, you were at Weisshaupt for a long time,” Líadan said to her. “I’m not sure you really count as an Orlesian Warden anymore. You barely even have an Orlesian accent.”

“So I’m a Weisshaupt Warden, now?”

“Look on the bright side—at least you aren’t an Anders Warden.”

“What’s that about me?” asked Anders.

“From the Anderfels, not the mage named,” Malcolm said, and then he turned to Fiona. “And Líadan has a good point.”

Fiona huffed.

“Don’t you think we should be paying attention to the darkspawn?” Mhairi asked, waving her arms at the corpses.

Anders gave the dead darkspawn an appraising look. “My mother always told me that if you ignore someone annoying you, they’ll eventually get bored and go away. It didn’t work for my mother when it came to me, but maybe that will work on the darkspawn.”

“I think the recruit makes a good point. I need to introduce some more darkspawn arses to my foot. Only polite thing to do to welcome them to the new place,” said Oghren.

“She’s a full Warden now, not a recruit,” Malcolm said absently, and then he pointed to Anders. “Him, too. He’s Anders. He was an apostate, now he’s a Grey Warden. Oh, and the quiet man in the corner is Nathaniel Howe. Also now a Warden.”

Oghren lifted his bushy eyebrows in surprise at Nathaniel. “I remember you! You’re the one those Orlesian Wardens had to wrestle down in order to capture. Rendon Howe’s little blighter! You got some stones to show up around here. You know, I respect that. Throw caution to the wind, run headlong into danger, and sod the consequences—that’s the only way to live.”

“Makes a good way to die, too, I’ve noticed,” said Malcolm.

Meanwhile, Nathaniel was giving Oghren an uneasy look. “Thanks. I think.”

“Yep. Don’t give you a piss what the others think. Oghren’s got your back.” Then the dwarf spun and started towards a door that Malcolm had no idea where it led. He hoped Nathaniel did. “Now, let’s go see about those darkspawn.”

“About _time_ ,” Mhairi muttered, practically stomping after Oghren. 

Nathaniel glanced at Malcolm and Líadan quizzically. “She certainly seems... eager when it comes to killing darkspawn. Or finding darkspawn. And the Grey Wardens.”

“Just be happy you didn’t have to listen to her all the way from West Hill,” Líadan said with a scowl.

Fiona ran her fingers up and down her staff. “She does lay it on a bit thick at times.”

Malcolm shot her a surprised look. “What happened to ‘there’s no need to deride others on how they feel about the Grey Wardens?’”

“She made a crack about my age,” Fiona said, and then hefted her stave and headed through the door Oghren and Mhairi had already gone through. 

“More of a ‘foot in mouth’ comment than a crack, but I’ll give her that one, anyway.” With that, Anders followed the other mage.

Líadan, Malcolm, and Nathaniel exchanged shrugs, and then followed the others. They caught up quickly, as the party ahead of them had been moving cautiously. Nathaniel took the lead and guided them through the castle toward a side entrance to the battlements that would allow them to flank the darkspawn. In one long hallway, they came across a sickly human soldier slumped against the wall, dressed in the same dragonbone heavy mail that Mhairi wore. 

The man blinked up at them, disbelief in his eyes at seeing humans that looked none the worse for wear in a castle teeming with darkspawn. 

Mhairi, pushing the others aside, ran over and knelt next to the injured man. “Rowland!” She turned to Malcolm. “Ser, Rowland was a knight recruited from Denerim like me. We must do something for him.”

As Malcolm got closer, he could feel the taint already spreading quickly in the man’s body.  There weren’t any visible bite marks, but there was a nasty-looking stab wound in the man’s abdomen. Darkspawn blades weren’t unknown to be as tainted as the beings who used them, he knew that much. Malcolm glanced over at Fiona and Anders for confirmation about whether or not the man could be helped.

Fiona gave a quick shake of her head, mouth pressed into a firm line.

“He looks beyond healing magic to me,” Anders answered out loud. “Maybe a shot of whiskey for the pain?”

“I like the way you think,” said Oghren.

Mhairi glared at them both. “Stop joking! This isn’t funny!”

That woman really needed to work on developing a gallows sense of humor, or being a Grey Warden would be very difficult for her, Malcolm thought. And, more and more, Anders really seemed fit into their small group of Wardens quite well. He wished a little that the mage had been around during the Blight. The conversations that might’ve been struck up between him and Wynne would’ve been spectacular. Or even him and Morrigan. He resisted a frown. Right. Morrigan. She just always had to pop up into his thoughts. 

Líadan nudged him in the ribs with her elbow, inclining her head toward Anders. “Can you imagine how fantastic the arguments between him and Wynne would’ve been?” she asked quietly, a half-smile tugging at the side of her mouth. 

And again, he wondered if she could read his thoughts or something. “Can you imagine the things he and Morrigan would’ve said to each other?”

Then the elf elbowed him, hard. “I don’t want to think about Morrigan. And neither should you, for that matter. She doesn’t deserve it. And _you_ deserve better.”

Malcolm chanced to glance down at her and saw what she hadn’t said reflected in her eyes—he deserved better _if_ he hadn’t conscripted Nathaniel out of revenge. He sighed, and then turned his attention back to Mhairi and Rowland. “What happened?” he asked the wounded, sickly knight.

Already, the taint sickness was making it hard for Rowland to speak. This man wouldn’t be turning into a ghoul, so that was a mercy. Instead, the taint was going to kill him outright very soon. He didn’t have much time, and Malcolm needed to know what happened. “We only had a moment’s warning before they were on us, my lord,” said Rowland. “The seneschal ordered a counterattack, but they came out of nowhere! There’s one of them... a darkspawn who talks. He is powerful.”

“Bloody talking darkspawn,” said Oghren. “It isn’t sodding right.”

“Darkspawn in general aren’t right,” said Nathaniel.

Oghren grunted his agreement with the assessment.

“Where is this talking darkspawn? On the battlements?” Malcolm asked, ignoring the byplay.

“Yes. He went after the seneschal after the last of the Orlesians were dead or gone,” Rowland answered. “He called himself the Withered. Told me that right as he gutted me.” Then he opened his mouth to add something more, but nothing came out except a hitching breath, and then his chest stopped moving.

Mhairi closed the dead man’s eyes and bowed her head. “I will avenge you, Rowland. I swear it.” Then she stood up, picked up her sword, and looked expectantly at Nathaniel. 

After exchanging a look with Malcolm for permission to resume leading, Nathaniel motioned for them to follow. A few more minutes of careful walking through the Vigil, and then Nathaniel stopped at a metal-reinforced door. “This leads to the far side of the battlements.”

“There’s a group of darkspawn out there,” Fiona said. “Ten of them. One emissary, and one other, it’s... strange-feeling. A bit like the Architect, in fact, but not as powerful. However, this one is definitely strong, like it was said before. It isn’t an emissary, but we will have to get through the emissary that _is_ there and some genlocks before we get to the strange one.”

“I’ll go out first, then,” said Malcolm, creeping closer to the door. “I’ll smite the emissary so it can’t hit anyone with its spells. Then Mhairi and Líadan can move into the melee with me. Nathaniel, you keep firing your arrows from the shadows.” He glanced at Fiona and Anders, realizing he still had no idea what to call Fiona. He had yet to even address her directly. “And you two, you do your thing,” he ended up saying, wincing inwardly. Then he held up three fingers, a silent countdown, turning each finger down before making a fist and slipping out the door.

Outside, the rain had picked up, and the higher winds up on the battlements made it lash painfully against his scalp and face. Lightning flickered and grasped with its fingers across the sky, and Malcolm squinted in the darkness after, trying to see the darkspawn Fiona had indicated.  But they found him first. Despite his group having been quiet, the darkspawn had been waiting for him to appear. The emissary whipped its staff around and hit Malcolm with a crushing prison before he could summon his holy smite. He cried out in pain as the spell lifted him into the air and starting wracking him in waves made of pure pain. Then he wished Alistair was around so he could dispel the area, as he couldn’t do it himself when trapped like this. Stupid, stupid. He should have brought out at least one more person so the darkspawn would’ve have to choose, giving him a chance to fully summon the smite before anyone got hurt. After things got settled here at the Vigil—provided he lived through this, of course—he would have to train Mhairi in templar skills. For now, he was going to have to suffer through it.

His scream brought the rest of the Wardens tumbling through the door, Fiona giving him a sympathetic look, informing him that she’d also been at the mercy of a crushing prison before. Then she motioned toward Anders and the taller mage hit Malcolm with a rejuvenation spell to keep him conscious until the spell’s effects faded. After giving Anders a nod of approval, the petite elf motioned for the others to step back, and then launched a fireball onto the emissary and the genlocks bunched around it. The emissary shrieked as its ragged robes caught fire. It started to spin around, flailing its arms and knocking aside two of the similarly aflame genlocks. Arrows, presumably from Nathaniel, struck another two genlocks that were less on fire and moving threateningly toward the Wardens. Líadan checked with Fiona that she wasn’t going to send off any more spells that would affect the entire area, and then plunged into fray, heading straight for the preoccupied emissary. With a yell, she jumped up and swept both daggers in front of her, separating the emissary’s head from his body. Black ichor flew from the stump of the neck, spattering Líadan’s tabard and the genlocks nearby. 

The spell ended with the emissary’s death, and Malcolm dropped hard to the stones underfoot. Though he’d been unable to cushion himself from the fall, he at least hit armored shoulder first, and the landing didn’t add to whatever other damage the spell itself had caused. Anders grabbed him under the arms and hauled him to his feet. “Take it you’ve been in one of those before?” the mage asked, letting go, and then casting a small healing spell.

Malcolm rotated his shoulders to loosen them, grateful for the relief the healing brought. “Yes. Last time when I fell out of it, I hit my head on a shield—don’t ask—and ended up with a concussion.” Then he blinked, realizing that it was also the same night he’d found the letter from Fiona and confirmed with Wynne that Fiona was his and Alistair’s natural mother. Strange. He shook his head to clear it, needing to concentrate on the threatening group of darkspawn in front of them, and not muse about his past. 

Even though part of said past was standing nearby and totally kicking some darkspawn ass. Admittedly, he was proud of that. Both the mother that’d raised him and the one that’d given birth to him were damn good warriors in their own right. 

But his own talents weren’t needed, as another of Nathaniel’s well-aimed arrows felled another genlock, and Mhairi’s shield bash followed by a stab to the chest took care of the last darkspawn in the immediate area. They regrouped and continued along the walls, the Wardens that could, following the taint, and the Wardens that couldn’t, following the others. Soon enough, they were rounding a corner and could hear the conversation taking place between the glowering—if a darkspawn could glower—darkspawn and a determined-looking older man with salt and pepper hair.

“That’s Seneschal Varel,” Nathaniel said. “Good man. My father hated him.” Then he got a thoughtful look to his eyes, and he fell silent.

The talking darkspawn, the Withered, Malcolm remembered Rowland saying, turned to face the newly appeared Wardens. He blinked in what Malcolm thought seemed like recognition when he saw them, or him, specifically, as the unnatural being’s gaze settled onto him. The darkspawn gave a short nod, and then looked at the few other darkspawn remaining with him, including two holding the limp Varel. “It has ended just as he foretold. Be taking this one gently. We are wishing no more death than is necessary.”

That’s new, Malcolm thought.

“Necessary?” Varel repeated in his gravely voice. “As if your kind has ever done anything else.”

The Withered looked at the seneschal. “You are thinking you know of our kind, human? It is understandable, but that will soon be changed.”

Varel stared right back at the towering darkspawn. “Others have come, creature. They will stop you.”

“It _is_ talking!” Anders exclaimed, sounding gleeful.

“Well, let’s shut it up already!” said Oghren.

“That’s the one that killed Rowland,” said Mhairi. Then she slid her shield into a defensive position, raised her sword, and charged straight at it.

“Stop!” Malcolm shouted, but Mhairi ignored him, too intent on avenging her fallen comrade.

The Withered saw her entire approach. Once she got close enough so that she couldn’t stop in time, he dropped to one knee. Using his own shield, when Mhairi tripped over his knee, he propelled her into the air. Then he jumped up and, throwing his entire body behind the blow, and hit the Warden with the shield while she was still in midair. The added momentum from the second blow sent Mhairi flying over the side of the battlements and to the ground at least a hundred feet below.

Malcolm cursed under his breath, hoping the blow from the shield that’d partly connected with her head had killed her instantly so she wouldn’t suffer the painful death waiting for her when she hit the ground. Then he made a mental note to send out a search party for her body once this talking darkspawn was taken care of.

The Withered, a self-satisfied grin spread eerily across his face, turned and pointed at Malcolm. “Capture that one! The Father said he will know the location of the witch! These others, they may be killed!”

“The witch?” said Anders, who then glanced at Líadan. “Are they talking about you? Because you’re right here.”

“If you’re calling me a witch, Anders, you had better take that back,” Líadan replied, twirling the dagger—Duncan’s, Malcolm recognized—in her right hand menacingly. “I don’t need magic to deal some serious damage to a man.”

“I’ll explain later,” Malcolm said to Anders. “And you probably should take that back. You really don’t want to be on her bad side.” Not that he apparently ever took that advice himself.

There wasn’t time to say anything else, because the last of the darkspawn were upon them. The hurlocks that’d been holding Varel proved little difficulty once Anders had paralyzed them, with Malcolm and Líadan spinning between them, dealing mortal wounds before turning to the darkspawn leader. The Withered let out a powerful war cry before lashing out at Líadan. But the elf continued to prove nimble and danced out of the darkspawn’s reach. The darkspawn scowled and swung at the elf again, but she continued to elude him. The Withered had turned and Malcolm found himself on the darkspawn’s blind side. He immediately took the advantage offered to him and angled his blade up and through the gap in the darkspawn’s armor between the cuirass and pauldron. The cut dropped the darkspawn to his knees and Malcolm kicked him away with his foot while pulling his sword back out. Arterial darkspawn blood sprayed out from the wound, splashing across Malcolm’s formerly mostly-clean Grey Warden tabard.

Líadan jumped in and finished the job on the Withered by a fast stab to the throat with her favored right-hand dagger. Once the darkspawn was verifiably dead, she removed her dagger and kicked the corpse once, just for good measure. “That’s for killing one of the new Wardens,” she told the dead body. Then the elf turned toward Malcolm, a new, yet familiar concern passing a dark look into her eyes. “It asked about Morrigan, too,” she said. “Like the last one.”

“I know,” Malcolm replied. He realized that Morrigan not only had Grey Wardens hunting for her, but the darkspawn, as well. Far sooner than he’d thought, and he wasn’t sure if she would be able to evade both. So the Wardens’ hunt for Morrigan was now a last hope to save her life, if it could even be saved. 

If it deserved to be saved.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

“Yes, Stone’s greetings friend.

You will fight ceaselessly in

The Legion of the Dead.”

— _Motto of the Legion of the Dead_

“Vigil’s Keep is one of the oldest settlements in Ferelden, older than Denerim and Gwaren. The barbarians who battled the Tevinter Imperium chose this location for a fortress so that their warning fires would be visible at a great distance when Tevinter ships neared the coast.” 

—from _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

**Malcolm**

The search party had found Mhairi, conscious and surly, perched precariously on an outcropping twenty feet below where she’d fallen from the battlements. “That stone outcropping shouldn’t be there. The rock around it must’ve weathered away. We’ll have to fix that,” said Garavel, whom Seneschal Varel had introduced to Malcolm as the captain of the Vigil’s guard. 

“Perhaps we should retrieve the Grey Warden stuck on it first,” said Malcolm. “Seems it would be the nice thing to do.”

The captain blanched at the mild admonition in Malcolm’s words. “Of course, Prince Malcolm. I will let you know when she has been safely rescued.” Then he trotted away, shouting orders to soldiers to find rope and meet him on the battlements.

Malcolm scowled after him at being called prince, and then muttered, “I thought I asked him to call me Malcolm. Why can’t anyone just call me by my given name anymore?”

“Because you’re a prince, a Senior Warden, and the Warden Commander’s second. It wouldn’t be proper, my lord,” said Seneschal Varel, walking over from the gatehouse, studying the topmost piece of paper he carried on the sheaf in his right hand. “You grew up in the nobility, you should be used to it by now.”

He sighed. “I never got used to it.” He’d accepted it, because that was how it had to be, as it’d been during the Blight when they’d started referring to him as a prince. But that didn’t mean he was used to it or that he liked it in the least. People like Rendon Howe, _they_ were the sort of person who liked it. Well, there was also King Cailan, but he was a different sort entirely. Cailan had been well-meaning, but in the end, had caused the deaths of many, including himself, as Howe had. However, Howe had done so out of his own dark ambition, uncaring how many he had to kill to get what he felt he deserved. Cailan, on the other hand, had tried to stop the darkspawn horde without help through foolish ambition to try to emerge from his father’s shadow. And now, both were dead. No, Malcolm really didn’t like his odds if he ever got _used_ to being called things like ‘my lord’ by people he thought were either his equal or even his betters. 

Varel looked at him curiously then nodded slightly to himself, as if confirming an answer to a question he never posed out loud. “I don’t suppose you will.” He glanced down at his paper again. “Cleanup of the bodies, darkspawn, soldiers, and Wardens is nearly complete. It’s as we feared—all of the Orlesian Wardens are dead or missing. Around half of the soldiers that were in garrison here are dead or injured. There were three cases of Blight sickness in the soldiers. They have been dealt with... quietly. Patrols are out now, checking to make sure that the taint hasn’t taken hold anywhere within the Vigil’s walls.” Varel shuffled through the other papers, read a name written on one, and handed it over to Malcolm. “This message arrived this morning.”

After raising an eyebrow at the seneschal, Malcolm cracked open the wax seal and unfolded the letter. It was from Riordan. He and Alistair had planned on arriving at the Vigil tomorrow, but would be delayed another five days due to having to take a detour around the Wending Wood instead of taking the Pilgrim’s Path straight through. There were reports of significant possible bandit activity within the forest, making it too dangerous for the king to travel through safely. Malcolm couldn’t stop the smirk that formed. Alistair must’ve _hated_ that. Riordan also said that Arl Eamon was with them. Malcolm recognized the mention for what it was—a warning. “Warden Commander Riordan, King Alistair, and Arl Eamon will arrive in five days instead of tomorrow,” he told Varel, folding up the letter and tucking it into a pocket. “Something about trouble in the Wending Wood. Do you know anything about that?”

The seneschal plucked out a different paper. “That was another thing I was going to mention. A report passed along from Amaranthine, as they claim they don’t have enough guards to deal with it. Merchants are claiming that their caravans are being attacked. Wagons burned to ashes and they claim no survivors, though I’m not sure how they’d have details if there’s no survivors to tell them. But that’s the message. Other reports from local villages detail finding guards torn limb from limb and left in the village square. They’re claiming darkspawn to get the Wardens involved, but no one really knows the veracity of their claims. Rumors talk about monsters seen lurking in the shadows. But, whatever it is, it’s as the Warden Commander said. Travel and trade are completely crippled between Denerim and Amaranthine since no one feels it’s safe to use the Pilgrim’s Path through the Wending Wood.”

“I suspect we’ll be going to check that out after Riordan arrives,” said Malcolm. “That will bring us further east and we need to be going back _west_. There’s a Deep Roads entrance around Highever. I’m certain that’s where the darkspawn around there are coming from.”

“And here, my lord?”

“Right. Yes. _That_ little problem.” He sighed again. At least it’d stopped raining. What Varel was getting at was that with the discovery of Mhairi’s surprisingly still-alive body, all that was left to them was finding out how the darkspawn had gotten into the keep. The soldier had confirmed that other guards had shut the gates after him when he’d run for help, giving credence to the idea that the darkspawn had somehow gotten in from inside. Most likely from below ground or within the mountainside the Vigil was built into. Either way, it meant that there was a long-lost Deep Roads entrance around here in addition to the one that had to be around Highever. Malcolm wanted to curse at how extensive the dwarven kingdom had been before the days of the First Blight, but he couldn’t really fault them for it. The dwarves couldn’t have known that the Tevinters would cause the darkspawn to exist and overtake their network of the Deep Roads. It baffled Malcolm to think that once, long ago, the Deep Roads hadn’t been a foreboding, dangerous place. That once it’d been just a bunch of roads and cities like any highway on the surface of Thedas. The darkspawn, however, had changed everything, as they tended to do. “Yes, that needs to be taken care of first, lest we be ambushed again within our own keep.” He frowned over at the entrance to the main building.

“About that, my lord, I wanted you to know that I had nothing to do with what happened with your foster family. And if I could have stopped Arl Howe, I would have,” Varel said. 

Malcolm look back over at him, blinking at what he thought was a sudden subject change. “I... what?” Then he realized what he’d said just before and made the connection. He waved off Varel’s impending second apology for bringing it up. “No, I see now. And you were let go by Arl Howe long before... well, long before.” Malcolm shifted his weight from foot to foot, suddenly incredibly uncomfortable. “I’m, um, I’m going to go take a walk around, see what I can find. You know, entrances or whatever.”

“You might want to try the basement,” Varel suggested, immediately understanding Malcolm’s plight and playing along with the subject change.

His need for escape suddenly became less desperate. “There’s a basement? Highever doesn’t have a basement. I mean, there’s the dungeon, but not actually a basement.”

Varel pointed toward the other side of the yard. “The entrance is over there. Might be a good idea to take some people along with you, though, should you decide to investigate.”

Malcolm took a step away, and then turned back to Varel. “Thank you.”

The seneschal nodded. “I will go and check on the rescue party’s progress.”

Trying to decide on who to take with him on this little exploration party, Malcolm started toward the castle. Oghren was helping shore up defenses, so he was out. Nathaniel, he was an obvious choice, as he knew the Vigil. He needed a mage, but Anders had been working with the rescue party, and Fiona had gone off to the library after securing Morrigan’s ring back from Malcolm. The talking darkspawn’s second mention of Morrigan had renewed her interest in finding the witch, as they were also looking for the Architect, and the Architect was also looking for Morrigan. That left Malcolm with Líadan, and that was going to be awkward. The talking darkspawn’s second mention of Morrigan had visibly shaken her, as much as she would deny it. He wasn’t quite sure why it made her more nervous than the rest of them, but she’d also taken to looking at Malcolm like he was about to bolt at any second. Like he’d just up and run off and try to find Morrigan on his own because two factions of rather creepy darkspawn were after her. And, even though she was still angry with him, the notion of him dropping everything and leaving wasn’t one she liked. Or so Fiona had told him when he’d chanced to ask her why Líadan kept looking at him funny. 

He found Nathaniel in the main hall, studying a picture of a woman Malcolm vaguely recognized. “Your mother?” he found himself saying, forgetting that it might be as sore a subject as the other man’s father. Arlessa Howe had died during the Blight. Though, the painting made the woman a bit less scary than she’d been while she was alive. Even made her look almost pretty.

“Yes,” Nathaniel said. “You know, it’s funny. Considering all the things that’ve been taken, it figures this would still be here. I mean, my father _hated_ my mother. He only dragged this painting out when my grandmother visited... which was not often. I’d be paraded before her like a soldier on inspection, and she would pick over every flaw while Father awaited his turn.” He scowled at the painting and turned to look at Malcolm.

“Don’t you have any happy memories of your childhood?” Malcolm asked, truly curious.

A half-smirk appeared on Nathaniel’s face. “That _was_ a happy memory.”

“Okay, now I’m starting to see why you left for and stayed in the Free Marches for so long.” Malcolm glanced over at the painting. “Did you want it removed?”

“Please. I think it’s staring at me.”

Malcolm agreed, but he didn’t say so out loud. “So—

Suddenly, Nathaniel said, “I wanted to thank you.”

Malcolm blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“I wanted to thank you for making me a Grey Warden.” Nathaniel folded his arms across his chest, almost defensively, but his face was open and honest. “I had thought it would be worse than death, but it isn’t. It’s giving me a chance to redeem my family name, something I never thought could be done. You could have had me executed and I even encouraged you to do it. So I wanted to thank you for not having me killed and conscripting me instead.”

“Um...” He had no idea what to say. For one, he was completely relieved that Nathaniel liked being a Grey Warden. But it wasn’t like he could tell him that he wasn’t exactly sure why he’d conscripted him. That revenge had actually been a possibility and that there might not’ve been anything noble about it at all. 

Nathaniel picked right up on Malcolm’s reticence. “No need for you to say anything. I just wanted you to know that. What was it you going to say before?”

“Basement. This place has a basement? That’s what Varel told me,” Malcolm quickly said, happily changing the subject. “Anyway, I think that’s where the darkspawn might’ve gotten in. I wanted you to go with me to investigate since you know this place the best. I need to find Líadan first, though, so meet me at the basement entrance in about an hour.” After Nathaniel nodded his agreement, Malcolm strode out of the hall, Gunnar trotting at his side. He figured Líadan would be with Fiona in the library, if she was anywhere, the two mages poking away at the ring. He reached the library without too much trouble, the hallways at the Vigil much easier to navigate when compared to Weisshaupt. But when he opened the door to the well-kept library, he found Fiona alone at one of the tables, studying Morrigan’s ring so closely that her nose was almost touching it. Líadan was nowhere in sight. 

“Oh, good, it’s you,” said Fiona.

“If you were looking for me, you weren’t going to find me _inside_ that ring,” Malcolm replied. 

Fiona shot him a look that told him she didn’t find his being difficult amusing at all. Then she said, “I sent Líadan looking for you a few minutes ago. I think I’ve gotten somewhere with this ring, but I need you to test it.”

Malcolm’s mouth turned into a slight frown and he stepped closer. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m not powerful enough to reverse the effect of the enchantment on this ring, I know that much. Honestly, I’m not sure any mage is, save Morrigan or Flemeth. But I thought that perhaps I could reactivate the ring’s original purpose and let it work alongside what it does now, which is track your location.”

“So, it would basically allow us to track each other.” Malcolm tried to quash the hope that rose within him at one piece of the puzzle falling into place. 

Fiona handed him the ring. “If I’ve gotten it working, yes.”

He rolled the ring around in the palm of his left hand for a moment before carefully picking it up with his right hand. As soon as his fingers touched it, a vague feeling settled through him. _Northwest_. “I think you got it working a little. It’s really vague. I mean, _really_ vague, because we already know of places she’s been.”

“Just tell me.”

“Northwest. The ring is telling me she’s northwest of us. But that’s all. Nothing else. It isn’t like we can go—”

The door opened and Líadan walked into the room. “There you are,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you to bring you here, and yet here you are already.” Her eyes flicked straight to the ring Malcolm still held in his fingers. “Testing it?”

“Yes,” he replied, and for some reason, feeling guilty as he did.

She raised her eyebrows. “And?”

He shrugged and handed the ring back to Fiona, unsure of what to give for an answer.

Exasperation pressed Líadan’s mouth into a thin line and she turned to Fiona. “Well?”

The older elf deposited the ring into a small bag, which then was tucked into a pocket. “It’s a start. The only feeling he gets is vague, so it isn’t like he can go running off in Morrigan’s direction and meet with any sort of success yet.”

Malcolm didn’t miss the relief that crossed Líadan’s face before she brought her expression back to neutral. “Good to know,” she said quietly, making Malcolm wonder exactly what was good—the fact that he wouldn’t be running off or that they’d made progress on the ring. He decided it’d be better if he didn’t know. Easier, anyway. 

“I was looking for you, actually,” Malcolm said. “When I came here, I mean. I need people to come with me to inspect the basement of this place that Varel says is here. I’m guessing it’s where the darkspawn might’ve gotten in and going by myself would probably be unwise.” He remembered that during the early part of the Blight, that was exactly something he would’ve done. For a long time, he hadn’t cared if he lived or died. In fact, he’d preferred that he’d have died, like he’d felt he should have when his foster parents died. And in believing that, very often he’d tried to make that feeling become reality. But eventually his companions had gotten through to him, a combination of his brother Alistair, Riordan, and... Morrigan. One of the people instrumental in making him believe that he didn’t deserve to be dead had betrayed him. Had she convinced him that he needed to stay alive because of her stupid ritual? Or had she really believed he deserved to live? There was no telling, and there never would be. Because, even if he finally found her and confronted her, he could never believe anything she said. 

“Stop thinking about Morrigan,” said Líadan.

“I was just looking at the ring,” Malcolm said. “It can’t be surprising that she’d be on my mind after that.”

The young elf crossed her arms over the finely-made drakeskin cuirass of her armor. “No, but now you’re dwelling on it and that doesn’t make anything better.”

Frustration flared through Malcolm, though he wasn’t sure if it was with Líadan or Morrigan or both or everything entirely. “And just what do you think would make it better?”

“I’ll meet you two outside the basement entrance,” Fiona said, jumping in between their verbal volleys. “Soon.” Then she scooted out the door, leaving the two younger Wardens behind.

As Fiona left, Líadan had leaned against the wall behind her, as if she were trying to appear to be nonchalant. But her arms were still crossed and her entire body was stiff with anger. She opened her mouth to reply to Malcolm, but uncertainty stole through her green eyes, and she closed her mouth and looked away. To Malcolm, if he didn’t know any better, she looked lost, somehow. He didn’t know how to address that. He could address her being angry at him, teasing him, yelling at him, or even arguing with him. Those were all thing she was familiar with. But her looking practically vulnerable made something inside him panic. Líadan wasn’t a person who was vulnerable. Strong, fierce, independent, stubborn and so very _Dalish_ , that was her. 

“Will you come with me to the basement?” he finally asked, dropping the brewing argument entirely. “Us, I mean. Me and Fiona and Nathaniel.”

Líadan looked back to him from where she’d been gazing out the window, most of the vulnerability gone and replaced by an impish glint. “Yes, I know Nathaniel is going, I talked to him before I came back here. And Fiona kind of just said she was going. But, really, thanks for the clarification.”

He rolled his eyes. “Come on, then.” As they walked back outside, Gunnar stayed at Líadan’s side, tongue lolling, and occasionally casting her a worshipful look whenever she scratched behind his ears. The two of them found Nathaniel and Fiona studying the torn up ground outside the basement entrance. The elf noticed them first, a tiny amount of surprise registering in her eyes when she realized both of the younger Wardens looked none the worse for wear. 

Anders had also appeared, informing Malcolm that since Mhairi was asleep and recovering that he had nothing better to do than to traipse through haunted basements.

Malcolm studied the basement entrance, noting that the double doors had been smashed in from what looked like the inside, and the ground outside trampled, nothing but churned mud left. “Looks like this might’ve been where the darkspawn came from,” he said.

Nathaniel motioned towards the mud Malcolm had noticed. “Yes. And why this part of the yard is in such bad condition if they all had to march through this little area first.” He nodded in the direction of the basement entrance. “Here, I’ll take point since I’ve been down there before. Well, a little way in. I wasn’t really allowed in the basement.”

Everyone else trailed behind him. At first the basement seemed like any other castle storage area: casks of wine, barrels of ale, bags of grain, stacks of repair supplies. They passed by an ancient-looking door with an equally ancient-looking lock on it that proved surprisingly resilient against bashes from a sword pommel. Nathaniel happily offered to pick it, as he’d been curious about what was behind that door since he was a child, but Malcolm said they’d investigate it later. For now, they had to find out where the darkspawn were coming from and how to keep them from invading the Vigil again, at least from the inside. No matter what they did, the darkspawn would always find them from the outside. The darkspawn always found the Grey Wardens. And in the end, the Wardens always found the darkspawn. 

They descended another level to find a giant hole in the ground with several crudely made rope ladders swinging along the sides. “Was this here when you were around?” Malcolm asked, peering into the depths of the hole, seeing only a deep, black... nothing.

“I’ve no idea. I wasn’t allowed down this far,” Nathaniel answered. “I’m certainly starting to see why. Do you think this is where the darkspawn came from?”

“I believe so. This is what we found in the Tower of Ishal at Ostagar when we went back. We’ll going to have to climb down there and see what we can find, though,” Malcolm said. 

Light sprang from the tip of Fiona’s staff and she shined it into the hole, revealing paved stones far below. “Those look like Deep Roads paving stones,” she said. “Yes, we’ll need to go down there.”

“And here I thought you’d be the rational one and say ‘no, we shouldn’t go into that deep, dark, scary tunnel into the depths of the unknown,’” said Líadan. 

“It isn’t really the unknown,” Malcolm pointed out, cheerily slipping back into the familiar role of teasing Líadan. “It’s the Deep Roads.”

“And that makes me feel so much better,” she replied. 

Anders scowled down at the hole. “Join the Wardens, they said. See all of Thedas, they said.”

Crouching beside the nearest rope ladder, Malcolm glanced over at the mage. “I said no such thing.”

“Join the Wardens, they said. Get a griffon, they said,” Anders continued.

He rolled his eyes. “I _definitely_ didn’t say that. Besides, if they magically found more griffons, I’d be first in line to get one.”

“I think the First Warden would be the first one,” said Fiona.

Malcolm tapped at his chin thoughtfully. “You know, he does strike me as the type who would enjoy having a griffon.”

“Who wouldn’t want a griffon?” Líadan asked, drawing her staff from her back and adding to the light Fiona was providing.

“Now that I think about it, I don’t think I would,” said Anders. “Can you imagine the _smell_ of a beast like that? Half eagle and half lion?”

Malcolm shrugged. “Couldn’t be any worse than a horse or mabari.”

“Obviously, you’ve never had a cat.” Nathaniel prodded skeptically at the first rung of the ladder below him.

“Got me there. Always been more of a dog person, myself.” Malcolm descended the first couple of rungs, liking this plan less and less as he went. Gunnar barked in support of his master’s statement. Malcolm told him, “You stay up here. If we aren’t back in two hours, you run and get Oghren.” Then he turned to Anders. “Anyway, I thought I said something like, ‘Join the Wardens, spend the rest of your life thumbing you nose at templars’ or some such.”

“Actually, what I heard was ‘spend your life giving the Chantry the finger,’” said Anders.

“Which is pretty much the same thing,” Malcolm said, and then dropped from the last rung of the ladder to the granite floor. “Okay, I’m at the bottom. Don’t leave me alone down here, people. It’s dark. And there are probably spiders.” He frowned, as he should’ve remembered that particular problem _before_ he’d gone and climbed into an unknown section of the Deep Roads. In the ruins under the Tower of Ishal, they’d run into the cave spiders. And in practically every section of the Deep Roads, it’d been spiders or thaig crawlers. “Giant spiders.”

“That isn’t really going to make me climb faster,” said Anders.

“You should hear him whenever he sees one of the spiders,” said Líadan. “He screams like a little girl. Hysterical, I tell you. I didn’t think a guy his size could _make_ a sound like that.”

“Really? Oh, I have to hear it!” Anders dropped from his ladder to the floor and brushed himself off. “We’ve got to find some of those giant spiders.”

“I’ll sure they’ll drop in at some point,” said Líadan, who promptly started to giggle at her little joke.

Malcolm glared up at her. “You aren’t that big a fan of those spiders, either. In fact, I think you were confusing your own screams with mine.”

“You know, that sort of comment could mean several different things,” said Anders. “And most of them have _nothing_ to do with spiders, if you know what I’m saying.”

“Oh, go soak your head,” Líadan said as Malcolm rolled his eyes and silently thanked the Maker that Oghren wasn’t there.

“Ha! I’ve struck close to something, haven’t I? Something hidden? Something you don’t wish to discuss?” Anders leaned his staff against a nearby wall and clapped his hands in glee. “I knew it! This is why I could never get anywhere with you! Now I just have to get you to admit to your fe—”

Líadan dropped down directly in front of Anders, the formerly jovial look to her face completely gone, replaced by a deadly seriousness one usually found with dealing with darkspawn and not friends. “I said _shut it_ , Anders.” She poked her fellow Warden once, hard in the chest, and then stalked off into the tunnel beyond. 

Nathaniel and Fiona were the last ones to drop to the ground. “There are darkspawn nearby,” Fiona said as soon as she could make eye contact with the other Wardens. “Not an immediate threat, but they’ll be here soon.”

“Something tells me that Líadan could probably take them all on herself without any help from any of us, considering the mood she’s in,” said Anders. 

“I _heard_ that,” Líadan called from ahead of them.

Malcolm couldn’t help it. He laughed. He knew that Anders had hit a tender spot with Líadan, and Malcolm had to admit, one that he possessed as well, and he felt bad for that. But having her be mad at someone _other_ than him was a very nice change. Even though he knew the fallout from all of this would be rather awkward, because, obviously, things weren’t awkward enough. At times, it made him almost fondly remember when Líadan had hated him.

Anders snapped his head over to look at Malcolm. “Or I could just start in on getting you to talk. You’re an easier target, anyway. Less able to hit me with lightning and all that.”

“He could just smite you, ” Nathaniel said mildly as he walked by Anders. Then he grabbed the mage by the sleeve and forced him forward with him. “And then you would be totally defenseless, whereupon an angry Dalish mage could torture you to her heart’s content. My advice? Let it go, my friend.”

Another chuckle rumbled in Malcolm’s chest, but then stopped when he felt the twinge of approaching darkspawn. “They’re getting closer,” he said. After Fiona, Malcolm had been a Warden the longest, followed by Líadan. With Anders and Nathaniel being so new, they wouldn’t yet be able to feel much until the darkspawn were pretty much on them, or unless it was an entire horde bearing down on them, like it’d been at Ostagar. “Twenty or thirty.” He looked over at Fiona to confirm his count. 

She nodded. “No ogres or emissaries. Just a large band of hurlocks. We should start preparing.”

Malcolm and Fiona jogged to catch up with the others. Líadan had stopped at a transition point of the Deep Roads, where a mostly-finished dwarven sealing door hung open. “That looks like the doors they have at Orzammar,” Malcolm said, running a finger along the metal near the locking mechanism. “I wonder if any of the surface dwarves that are employed here to help with ongoing repairs would know how to fix this. That’d solve the problem of having a structural vulnerability to the darkspawn.”

“Maybe,” said Fiona, studying the lock for a moment before her eyes flicked toward the dark Deep Roads beyond. “They’re nearly here.”

“There’s someone ahead of them,” said Líadan, squinting into the darkness. “A dwarf, I think, wearing armor of some kind and running.”

“If I had a pack of thirty darkspawn after me, I’d be running, too,” said Anders. “And how do you even _know_ there’s someone there? I mean, someone that isn’t a darkspawn?”

“Elves have far better night vision than humans,” Malcolm replied. “Hearing, too.” Then he held his hand up to keep Anders from replying, because he could hear the telltale clink of armor coming from a running person. When he looked into the far Deep Roads, he thought he saw an outline of a person, as well. “I see it, too,” Malcolm said.

“Apparently your hearing and night vision are half again as good as a typical human’s, then,” said Anders, “because I still can’t see a thing.”

“Nor I,” said Nathaniel, who scowled at the dark, and then nocked an arrow.

Malcolm didn’t reply, keeping the ‘ _you have_ no _idea’_ to himself. He thought he heard Líadan snicker softly, but couldn’t be too sure. At least it meant that if she did, Nathaniel and Anders didn’t hear anything. He also refrained from frowning, as he thought the children of humans and elves were _human_ and wouldn’t have any additional, normally elven, traits. Yet he supposed something had to be passed along. Alistair had eyes like Fiona’s, so there was that. Though, they certainly hadn’t inherited Fiona’s height. However, Líadan had happily pointed out to Malcolm on a few occasions how he tended to act like Fiona at times. But now wasn’t the time to think about it, as the figure in the distance had become clearly visible. It was a young dwarf in the armor of the Legion of the Dead. Breathing from inside the helmet sounded labored, like they’d run very far, very fast. But he got no sense of the taint emanating from the dwarf, so at least they were a potential ally and not casualty. 

“How far behind you?” Fiona asked. 

“Five minutes, give or take,” the dwarf replied in a female, if tinny-sounding voice, due to the helm. She removed it, revealing a young face sporting the brand of the casteless on her right cheek and the tattoo of the Legion of the Dead on the rest of her face. “Grey Wardens, then?”

“Yes,” said Malcolm, adjusting his grip on his sword and checking the straps on his shield. Then he quickly introduced himself and the rest of the group. The dwarf introduced herself as Sigrun.

“How did you know we’re Wardens?” asked Nathaniel, swinging his aim away from the newcomer.

Sigrun grinned. “Who _else_ plays around in the Deep Roads if they aren’t in the Legion?” Her hand grasped at her side as her breath hitched. “It’s a good thing I found you all, too. With that many darkspawn after me, it was close. For a moment there, I thought I was _really_ about to join the Legion of the Dead.”

Fiona frowned at the dwarf’s side. “Are you all right?”

“I might’ve cracked a rib, but it’s hard to be sure. Everything hurts,” she replied.

“Two minutes,” said Malcolm, moving closer toward the open entrance. Blue light reflected off the walls of the tunnel as Fiona applied a quick healing spell to the injured dwarf. After thanking the elf profusely, the dwarf lightly stepped up to stand beside the others at the front. 

Then the darkspawn were on them. This time they were of the non-talking sort, without tactics other than _chase_ , _hunt_ , and _kill_. Anders provided crowd control with Fiona supporting him, while Nathaniel fired deadly arrows from his place hidden in the shadows. Malcolm met the darkspawn charge head-on, using his shield to bash them out of the way and his sword to either finish what the blunt trauma had started, or to take two darkspawn down at a time. Líadan stuck to the edges of the battle, Sigrun staying near the elf, her twin axes spinning in deadly circles. That left Malcolm as the only warrior in the thick of it, as Alistair was traveling and Mhairi recovering, which considerably raised the odds of him being overwhelmed. He hissed in pain when a darkspawn shield cracked against his extended sword arm, and it turned into a grunt of frustration when the impact forced him to release his sword. He quickly dropped into a crouch, shield held above his head, to grab his sword again, but found that his hand wouldn’t cooperate. His fingers refused to bend and close around the grip of the sword and he couldn’t feel anything below his elbow. He cursed. Broken, then. 

More darkspawn bore down on him, as if they sensed his sudden weakness, weapons raised. Malcolm gathered his legs underneath him, ready to spring upward and bowl as many over as he could. The space was too confined to try and use a smite, as it would catch the mages in his party as well, rendering them nearly useless. Malcolm drove upward, knocking aside two of the hurlocks, but more took their places. Then Líadan appeared with Sigrun, both of them stepping between Malcolm and the advancing darkspawn, cutting them apart before they could get to the injured Warden. Once the immediate threat was gone, Líadan gave Malcolm a quick, tight smile, relief clearly showing in her eyes that he was safe for the time being.

Then an Alpha hurlock charged through the elf and the dwarf, sending them stumbling aside. It plowed into Malcolm full-tilt, Malcolm’s shield doing nothing to stop the charging body, but it did turn the darkspawn sword aside as it came between the two crashing bodies. They sailed backwards into the stone wall behind them, Malcolm’s smacking back to hit the stone, snapping forward, and then back again. The first hit made him see flashes and dark spots at the edges of his vision. The second brought the rush of full darkness, barely giving him time to see the Alpha’s body pulled away as he collapsed to the floor. As he slipped into blessed unconsciousness, he thought he heard a woman shout his name. He wondered who it was. And then he wondered nothing more. 

Darkness had found him. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

“The poets tell us that every lord knelt before Calenhad without question. The fact that he attended the Landsmeet surrounded by Ash Warriors and loyal mages of the Circle is generally omitted from the ballads, however.

From Calenhad came the line of Theirin kings and queens who reigned, uninterrupted, until the 44th year of the Blessed Age, when the Orlesian invasion came. The rightful king was forced to flee Denerim, and for 70 years a puppet sat upon the throne.”

—from _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

“You must not be under the impression that magic is all-powerful. There are limits, and not even the greatest mages may overcome them.

No one, for instance, has found any means of traveling—either over great distances or small ones—beyond putting one foot in front of the other. The immutable nature of the physical world prevents this. So no, you may not simply pop over to Minrathous to borrow a cup of sugar, nor may you magic the message you ‘forgot’ in the apprentice dormitory to your desk. You will simply have to be prepared.

Similarly, even when you send your mind into the Fade, your body remains behind. Only once has this barrier been overcome, and reputedly the spell required two-thirds of the lyrium in the Tevinter Imperium as well as the lifeblood of several hundred slaves. The results were utterly disastrous.

Finally, life is finite. A truly great healer may bring someone back from the very precipice of death, when breath and heartbeat have ceased but the spirit still clings to life. But once the spirit has fled the body, it cannot be recalled. That is no failing of your skills or power, it is simple reality.”

—from _The Lectures of First Enchanter Wenselus_

**Malcolm**

 He wasn’t in the Fade. He could feel something soft underneath him. A bed, maybe? Memories and images of being carried from the Deep Roads below the Vigil flitted through his mind, pieces of conversation, muted shouts, jolts and bumps from being hauled up from the basement. Everything was interspersed with a black nothing, gaps in time both on Thedas and in the Fade. Sometimes he was close to awake, hearing scraps of voices around him, catching only unintelligible bits before falling back to the darkness. 

In one hazy, near-waking moment, he heard a whisper in a familiar voice, but a familiar voice carrying an entirely unfamiliar quake as a strange, melodic language tumbled from her lips to surround him. “ _Emma ir abelas, m’ena ma’din vir dirth’din. Emma isala’tisha, emma souveri dar sulevin’din. Emma... emma felas inan lath. Ma emma lath, emma sulevin sahlin. Ar tu ven. Hamin._ ” A brief warmth, fingertips on his forehead, a hand quickly squeezing his, and then it was gone. Replaced by cold air and the scrape of a chair being moved away, the rasp of a door being opened, the patter of fading footsteps. He wanted to open his eyes, reach out and stop her from walking away and ask her what she’d said. It must have meant something, it must have been important because of how serious and concerned and practically _broken_ she’d sounded. Something meaningful enough that it had to be said in Elvish, and not Fereldan. But his eyes refused to work, his body refused to wake and move, and he pitched into darkness once again.

Keening, in the darkness. A sound made of twisted torment, brought by long imprisonment, unwilling separation from love and life. A bright flare and he could see briefly—bellowing out from a dragon’s maw, a tortuous scream in the voice of a child, the answering wail of a mother separated from child, helpless to her progeny’s plight. Both dragons, created in power and beauty worthy of worship. One remained shimmering, flying with in the single shaft of light, while the other was cast down and swallowed by the dark earth. The cries subsided and the dream released Malcolm from its grip, throwing him into the shadowy realm of almost awake.

Another hazy moment, another muted conversation, this time with two participants instead of one, and absent of Elvish.

_“I don’t understand. I used to hate him. I shouldn’t feel like this.”_

_“And I hated Maric once. You see how that turned out.”_

_“And what of Morrigan? She is gone, and yet she is not. What if he still loves her?”_

_“What if he doesn’t? What if he feels as you do? But if you don’t talk or act, how will either of you know? And talking to him while he’s unconscious doesn’t count. I know you were in here before. I don’t know what you said, but I saw the look on your face and the tears you barely kept from falling.”_

_“None of it really matters until this whole thing with Morrigan is settled.”_

_“None of it really matters until you decide that it matters. Morrigan is gone, even if she still lives, even if she is still on Thedas. She is on her own path now. What matters is when and how both of you decide to move on from what she did to both of you. Only then will anything really matter.”_

Malcolm struggled to stay and listen, but the weariness would have none of it, and he heard no more of the conversation. The next time he climbed through the haze, he heard the clink of heavy plate armor, the heavy tread of feet shod in plate boots. As before, he tried to open his eyes to figure out where he was, and this time, they cooperated. He squinted at the sudden flood of light, blinking rapidly as his eyes teared up in the onslaught. 

“You’re awake!” came the voice of his brother Alistair from the figure looming beside him.

Malcolm swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand in an effort to clear them. His vision finally resolved and he could see his brother clearly, clad in brilliantly shined silverite and gold plate armor of exquisite dwarven make. “And you’re shiny,” he said, his voice rough from disuse. “Gloriously golden-looking, even.”

Smiling at the crack, Alistair handed him a cup of water that Malcolm drank greedily. “We’ve been here for a whole two days, you layabout. I told Riordan that you were faking it to get out of having to be his second. Seems I was right.”

Alistair and Riordan had been at the Vigil for _two_ _days_ already? Malcolm struggled to sit up, finally propping himself against the wall behind the bed. “How long was I out?”

“A week.” The king’s face became serious. “I’m told it looked pretty bad when it first happened. You hit your head pretty hard, far harder than that concussion you got during the Blight when you fell from that crushing prison and hit your head on your shield. Líadan told me that she’d thought for a moment that you’d stopped breathing. Then Anders told me that you _had_ stopped. And then he started talking about how fantastic at healing he and Fiona were because they managed to bring you back before your spirit left your body. All told, it was close. ”

Close? Sounded like he’d been dead and should’ve been in the Fade. There had been dreams, though he barely remembered. Or were they memories? Dragons, dreams of dragons but not archdemons. What could it mean, if it meant anything at all? Malcolm frowned, his hand moving towards the edge of the bed, in the direction where he’d thought he’d heard her voice coming from. There was a chair there, pulled up fairly close to the bed. “ Líadan was here. I thought I heard her, but I couldn’t talk or wake up or anything. Where is she now?” 

As soon as Malcolm’s hand dangled off the side of the bed, Gunnar licked it, nub of a tail wagging madly.

“The healing mages—Anders and Fiona—they said you were in a coma. That, sometimes, the person who’s in one can hear you if you talk to them. I guess she came in to talk to you? Fiona told me that Líadan was here a lot to sit with you, I guess, for _some_ strange reason. But I can’t imagine why someone like her would want to hang out with the likes of _you_.” Alistair tilted his head to the side as he studied his younger brother’s face. “You’ve got the start of a good beard going there, you know.”

“That explains the itching.” Malcolm rubbed at the scruff. Even at Weisshaupt, when he’d made the admittedly lame attempt at the joke, he’d only gone three days without shaving. A week was the longest he’d ever gone since he’d been able to grow a beard. And as soon as he could get his hands on a razor, he wanted this fuzz off his face. It itched like _mad_. He had no idea how Oghren did it, keeping a beard. How did he not scratch his face off? And why hadn’t Líadan laughed at him when she’d been in here if his face had been this scruffy? The frown returned. “I need to figure out what she said to me when she was in here.”

“You couldn’t understand her? I mean, I know that a lot of the time none of us can make heads or tails of why she does what she does or why she says the things she says, but usually, we can make out the actual words, if not the entire meaning,” Alistair replied, forming a slight frown of his own.

“She was speaking Elvish. I recognized that much.” And try as he might, he couldn’t remember any specific words. He’d been too out of it to commit them to memory. His only hope was to hear them again and recognize them. He doubted that would ever happen.

“Oh, that probably means she was swearing at you. Her best swears are in Elvish. That’s what Zevran used to tell me, anyway. He could recognize some of them. As for where she is right now, I think she’s talking to the blacksmith and his partner that Eamon and Riordan brought with us from Denerim to help outfit the soldiers and Wardens here.” Alistair’s brow furrowed in thought as he tried to remember. “Herren was the smith’s name, I think. Parter’s Will or Walt or Wade or something like that. Not sure. Anyway, she was trying to tell Riordan about some strange idea she had for her staff and he shrugged and had pointed her in the direction of the blacksmith. Oh, and _speaking_ of Eamon!” Alistair leaned closer to Malcolm and lowered his voice. “Be on the lookout. He wants to talk to you.”

“I’ve been unconscious. I haven’t had time to exasperate him yet. What in the world does he need to talk to me for?” Malcolm asked, suddenly wishing he was asleep again.

Alistair straightened and shrugged. “Probably what he’s been harping on me about for the past two months. He keeps talking and talking and _talking_ about me needing to get married and have an heir.”

“That’s _you_ ,” said Malcolm. “I’m not the king. I don’t need heirs.”

“But we’re both the last Theirins and we’re Grey Wardens.” Alistair looked at the door to make sure no one was skulking about in the corridor. “Not sure if you were ever told, but that makes it a lot more difficult for us to father children. I think Eamon believes that if we’re both married that the chances for a legitimate Theirin heir will go up. And you know how he is about the Theirin bloodline.”

Malcolm scowled and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. “I think that man is overly obsessed with our love lives, that’s what I think. It’s unhealthy, I tell you.”

“You’ll get no argument from me. It’s kind of creepy talking about that stuff with him and I can’t get him to shut up about it.” Alistair handed Malcolm a stack of clothes and turned his back, keeping watch on the door. “He even brought up the idea of me marrying Anora.”

After letting out a full belly laugh, Malcolm slid from the bed and onto his feet and set to changing as quickly as possible. “Granted, the issue with her and Cailan not having children was probably Cailan’s fault, since he never had any bastard children from his affairs. But the notion of you and Anora together is absolutely ridiculous.” Nothing hurt, not even his head. The worst thing he felt was ravenous hunger, but that was practically normal for a Warden. It seemed Anders had a reason to feel proud about his and Fiona’s skills, if he’d been as bad off as Alistair seemed to believe. 

“When Eamon brought it up, I laughed so hard that he actually walked out of the room all red-faced and huffy like he gets. He hasn’t mentioned Anora since, thankfully.”

“Serves him right. Dressed,” he said, and looked around the room for his armor and sword and shield. He found the sword on a rack and the shield hanging from a spike in the wall, but no sign of his heavy mail. He sighed and sat back down on the bed.

“Your armor is being repaired,” said Alistair, who’d turned back around. “You know, at first, I thought I missed being in the thick of battle with the darkspawn. Then I got a glimpse of the state of your armor and changed my mind. I don’t think it was even that bad after the battle with the archdemon. You apparently took quite a beating. What were you _thinking_?”

“I don’t think he was thinking anything,” said Líadan, striding through the door, her staff in hand and very different than the one she’d carried before. One-third of it had been replaced by a wicked-looking blade, and while the other side kept the orb that’d been at the top, it had been encased in a protective metal cage. 

Alistair glanced over at her as if it address her statement, but his eyes caught sight of the stave and became admiring. “Your idea turned out to be a good one, looks like.”

She spun it in a lazy circle. “I think so. Herren seemed... mostly happy with it.”

“Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s never thoroughly happy with _any_ of his work, and he’s the best smith in Ferelden. Just don’t tell the dwarves that. They’ll start competing. Anyway, what’s that about Malcolm not thinking?”

Líadan fired a glare in Malcolm’s direction, and then turned to Alistair. “He just walked into the middle of the melee like it was any other normal battle. Except he was the only one of us there who normally does that sort of thing, so he went alone.” She threw another glare at the warrior in question. Malcolm started to wonder if he’d merely dreamed her having said something to him while he was mostly unconscious. Maybe he had. Wishful thinking, perhaps? Best not say anything about it, he decided. “Which was stupid,” she finished.

“And technically,” said Anders, joining the rest of them in the room, “you ended up dead.”

“So I was told,” Malcolm said, somewhat repentantly. 

“You were told correctly,” said Fiona, just behind Anders.

“Is everyone just going to start piling in here?”

Fiona shrugged, moving over to his bedside as Anders did the same. “You’ve been out for a week, so I suspect people have things to say to you.” 

Anders looked quickly over at Líadan. “Or yell at you, I imagine.”

She rolled her eyes and said nothing. Fiona and Anders prodded at Malcolm with their fingers and brief spells that allowed them to check his healing progress. Both of the mages stepped back, looking satisfied. “Good as new,” said Fiona. 

“Food,” Malcolm said, hopping off the bed, reveling in the feeling of being able to move, see, and speak once again. Then his face started to itch. “No. I’ll bathe and shave first. Meet the rest of you there.”

The group absconded to the dining hall, and Malcolm met them soon after. He found Riordan there with Mhairi and Nathaniel, in a deep enough conversation that he didn’t see Malcolm enter the room. Eamon was nowhere to be seen, and then Malcolm noticed Sigrun, the dwarf they’d met in the Deep Roads, sitting on the other end of the long table, with Oghren sitting across from her. Judging by the look on her face, she desperately needed a rescue from the other dwarf. Líadan noticed, as well, and immediately took pity on her and dropped into the empty place on the bench next to her. Alistair practically forced Malcolm to sit across from the elf, telling him that someone would bring him food before plopping next to him. Deciding that things were getting too complicated and that if Líadan wanted to go on and not talk about anything between them, if there _was_ anything, he’d go along with not talking, too. Malcolm forced himself to look at Sigrun instead of the elf. “So, I noticed that you’re here and not, you know, in the Deep Roads with the rest of the Legion.”

The dwarf grinned. “The Legion kills darkspawn, right? So do Grey Wardens, only Wardens do it better—” Anders snorted and Sigrun glared at him before continuing, “so I asked if I could become a Grey Warden since my entire scouting company in the Legion was killed before I found you guys. Anyway, Riordan made me a Warden two days ago, almost right after he and Alistair got here.”

“So what were you running from, anyway?” Malcolm asked, knowing that the others probably had already heard the story, but they hadn’t spent a week unconscious like he had. 

Sigrun pushed some of the vegetables on her plate around with a fork. “Before I found all of you in the Deep Roads, I’d been out with my company of scouts, looking for a place called Kal’Hirol. It was an old fortress, and there’d been rumors of something strange going on down there. That there were darkspawn acting oddly and maybe even breeding some sort of army. So we were sent to investigate. We ran into a massive amount of darkspawn, far too many for so little of us and it proved too much for us to handle. They also ambushed us, using tactics that you’d normally only see in a Blight, and on the surface, to boot. And one of them _talked_. It was telling all the others what to do. When my commander realized that we were all going to die—well, die _again_ , but this time for real—he sent me to get the message out because others had to know what was going on. He said to take the message to the Legion or the Wardens, whichever group I found first.” She sighed and looked directly at Malcolm. “The darkspawn have changed. They’re smart now. They destroyed my entire company almost easily.” She looked away, eyes haunted. “Part of me is glad that my commander told me to go. I saw them taking some of the women and I wasn’t about to stick around for _that_.” Fiona, walking by on her way to the other end of the table, gave Sigrun a sympathetic squeeze on the shoulder. Sigrun gave her a small smile of thanks, and then turned to Malcolm and said quietly, “There are many things worse than death. And birthing darkspawn day and night is probably the worst.”

Malcolm looked down at the plate a servant had placed in front of him, his appetite nearly gone at the memory of the broodmother. “No disagreement here,” he said, and then fell silent. He remembered Morrigan’s voice, the urgent request that she gave him after they’d emerged from the Deep Roads after their encounter with their first broodmother. _If I am ever about to be taken by the darkspawn... I want you to kill me. Without hesitation. Without question._ And he’d have done it. But much later, when she’d spoken of a deal that would bring equal danger and most likely suffering, he hadn’t killed her as so many had said he should have. Then he shoved the memory from his mind, not wanting to think about any of that. It wouldn’t lead him to Morrigan or the Architect or the Mother or to finding the Deep Roads entrance near Highever. And right now, that was very important to him, because his childhood home and his brother Fergus and their people were in danger until they could find and seal that entrance. He owed it to them to keep them safe.

“Here’s another strange thing,” Sigrun said, moving past everyone’s memories of broodmothers. “Something’s changed in the darkspawn, and I don’t think I like it. When I was getting away from the darkspawn near Kal’Hirol and being chased by some of them, we all pretty much ran into another group of darkspawn. And those darkspawn, instead of attacking me directly, went for the other darkspawn and started killing them, instead. One of the new ones was even talking, right up until I shoved a dagger down his throat, anyway. He was talking about the ‘Father’ and an ‘Architect’ and I think it was the same person. Or darkspawn or whatever it is. Anyway, that’s how I got so far ahead of them. It took them a while to notice that I’d gotten away because they were so busy fighting each other. Another thing—right before they attacked the other darkspawn, the leader of the new darkspawn group asked me if I knew where the witch was. I was so surprised that I asked him what witch and he said the name Morrigan. That’s about the time that I stabbed him, so I really have no idea what he was talking about. But, it was _talking_. It’s something to ponder. Especially when you need to be reminded that impending doom is always right around the corner.”

“You have _no_ idea,” said Alistair.

Malcolm stared at his food, trying to make his heart stop hammering.

“Who is Morrigan, anyway?” asked Anders. “When we ran into a talking darkspawn during the attack here, he was asking for her. And the darkspawn over at Highever, too.” He glanced at Malcolm. “Was she the witch who traveled with you during the Blight and disappeared straight after?”

“Before, actually,” said Alistair, saving Malcolm from having to answer. “She left the night before the final battle. There’s a... long story behind it.”

“I’ll bet,” said Anders, looking from Alistair’s grim countenance to Malcolm’s and Líadan’s even more grim expressions. Even Oghren had put down his ale and taken to studying the grain of the wood in the table.

Malcolm sighed. “Every Warden should probably know the entire story with all these talking darkspawn asking about her. You all deserve to know why.” He pushed his plate away and stood up. “I’ll go talk to Riordan and we’ll have a meeting with everyone later.” What he least looked forward to was how the new Wardens would act differently toward him. Either pity or sympathy or anger or a combination of all of those emotions. Including Alistair, even though being King he wasn’t really an active Warden, they now had ten Grey Wardens in Ferelden. Had the Orlesian Wardens not be killed or captured in the attack, they’d have over thirty at their disposal. While ten was good, thirty would’ve been great and allowed them to send a group over to Highever to keep watch there while they cleaned up the mess here. Instead, they would have to send a group over to investigate the Wending Wood, and have another group kept here in case of another attack. They just didn’t have the people to spare for Highever, much less allow for Malcolm to start a search for Morrigan in earnest. Now freely scowling, Malcolm walked quietly over to Riordan.

The Commander noticed him this time. “Well, it’s good to see you, too, lad,” Riordan said as he rose to his feet.

“What? Oh, sorry, not scowling at you,” Malcolm replied, clasping arms with the Commander in greeting. Then he waved his hand around, as if brushing off the subject. “The whole Morrigan thing came up. Again. We need to have a meeting so that that we can tell all of the Wardens. With all of these talking darkspawn asking about her, they need to know at this point. There’s no way around it.”

Riordan nodded. “Yes, I agree. We’ll call—” He stopped speaking and his eyes shifted focus from the younger Warden to the opposite side of the hall behind him.

The doors to the dining hall had swung open and a young soldier ran into the room, making a beeline for Malcolm. “My lord,” he said once he was within earshot. “There are templars at the gate and they are asking for you.”

Malcolm blinked in disbelief. “For _me_? What do they want now? Don’t they realize that I’m not even a mage, much less an apostate?”

The Warden Commander let out a heavy sigh. “Show them into the main hall. We’ll meet them there.” The soldier nodded and ran back the way he came. Then Riordan glanced over at Malcolm again. “Don’t get me wrong, conscripting Anders was a good decision. But the Chantry is being ridiculously persistent in trying to get him back into their clutches, from the stories I’ve been told. And I’d thought they’d objected and postured a lot when Duncan conscripted Alistair.”

“I thought Fergus was holding those templars in custody,” said Malcolm.

“As did I. Come on, let’s go see what they want.” Riordan started off in the direction of the main hall, Malcolm falling into step beside him. Curious about the goings-on—and someone had alerted the mages that templars had arrived—the rest of the Wardens present in the dining hall followed. 

“Is this about me again?” Anders asked Malcolm.

He shrugged. “Not sure. The messenger said they asked for me for some strange reason.”

Anders gave him a curious look. “I didn’t know you were a mage!”

“Neither did I.”

“Well, the club isn’t as cool as it looks, you know.” Anders splayed out his fingers in front of him. “All this power at your fingertips? Tends to make the Chantry jealous and they spend the rest of their lives chasing after you. And templars, believe it or not, aren’t always the friendly type. I know, I know, I’m as surprised as you are.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know, I’m perfectly friendly,” said Alistair.

“You aren’t a templar,” Malcolm replied. “You’re a king.”

“Why do you always have to remind me?”

“Stop mixing up your careers and I wouldn’t have to.”

“You’re the one who’s apparently an apostate and never told _any_ of us,” Alistair shot back. “Honestly, if they’re here about Anders, they’d have requested Riordan at this point since the Warden Commander is in residence now. I really can’t see why a party of templars would be asking about you unless they thought you were an apostate. But all of us would’ve known by now if you were a mage. You’d certainly know by now if you were a mage. Whatever else could they want with you, though?”

Malcolm shrugged. “Maybe they need testimony against the templars that Fergus is holding at Highever?” Though he was wondering as much as the others what a group of templars would want with him specifically. He wasn’t even sure if Fergus had reported the rogue templars to the Grand Cleric yet. The week spent unconscious had certainly knocked him entirely out of the loop.

“Well, don’t take this the wrong way,” said Anders, “but I’m happy that for once it isn’t me the templars are after.”

“Quiet, all of you,” Riordan said, stopping in front of the doors to the main hall. 

As soon as the rest of them were silent, Líadan said, “They’re Orlesian.”

“And how do you know that?” asked Anders.

Líadan scoffed at him and pointed to her ears. “I can hear them talking to each other in Orlesian.” She frowned and turned to Alistair. “Why would _Orlesian_ templars be here, anyway? I thought your Chantry allowed each of your countries to handle things their way.”

Alistair shared in the elf’s frown. “They do. And since I don’t think the situation around Anders’ conscription has even gotten to the Fereldan Grand Cleric yet, I don’t see how the Divine in Val Royeaux would know and sent people to investigate. I wonder what’s going on.”

“Only one way we’ll find out,” said Riordan, and then he pushed the doors open.

Six templars, helms respectfully removed, stood in the middle of the room. They stopped talking as soon as the doors had cracked open. Seneschal Varel stood near them, looking slightly annoyed. Malcolm would put coin on Varel not knowing Orlesian and frustrated that he hadn’t been able to tell what the templars were saying. Vigil guards stood uneasily in twos at each entrance, already having been briefed about templar presence on Grey Warden grounds. Alistair, dressed in armor like the others, stayed back with the group of other Wardens as they stood against the back wall to watch. Malcolm knew it was to make sure Riordan’s authority as Warden Commander wasn’t accidentally usurped by the mere presence of the Fereldan king. 

“Riordan, the Commander of the Grey in Ferelden,” the nearest guard announced, “and Arl of Amaranthine.”

“I hate that,” Riordan muttered.

“It’s almost as bad as being in the mages’ club,” Malcolm whispered back. 

Varel nodded to both of them as they approached. “Commander. My lord. These templars have requested an audience with Prince Malcolm.”

One of the templars stepped forward and, in heavily accented Fereldan, said, “I am Knight-Commander Thierry of Val Royeaux. We have been sent on behalf of her Most Holy the Divine Regula I to speak with Prince Malcolm Theirin of Ferelden.”

“Whatever for?” Malcolm asked, entirely forgetting decorum.

The templar commander’s eyes flicked nervously in the direction of the group of Wardens lounging against the wall. Then he exchanged a look with another one of the templars, and Malcolm assumed it was the man’s second in command. They started to make an exchange in Orlesian, but Riordan interrupted with an upraised hand. “Please conduct all your conversations in Fereldan for the benefit of everyone present. While Malcolm and I and a few other of my Wardens can speak your language, several others do not. And I’m certain they’re as curious to hear the reason why you’re here as much as he and I are. So tell us, Knight-Commander, why has the Divine sent you to speak with Malcolm in particular?”

Thierry sighed, and then straightened his posture. “Several parties of my templars have been sent to hunt for a maleficar called Morrigan, Warden Commander. We have been told that Prince Malcolm would have additional information that would be beneficial to our hunt. This maleficar has been named the greatest current threat to the Chantry and made the highest priority apostate for my templars to find.” His gaze swung to Malcolm, who had yet to say anything. “So, in the name of the Divine, tell me what you know.”

Malcolm glowered at the templar. “Who told you that Morrigan was a maleficar?”

The Knight-Commander looked at Malcolm as if he were a dullard. “The Divine, of course. Who else?”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Stop being obtuse. You know what I’m asking.” He moved closer to the templar. “Now, you tell me, who told the Divine?” He couldn’t figure out how the Chantry would’ve found out. No reports from normal soldiers or nobles from the Blight would have named Morrigan a maleficar. The only people who had done so were some of the Grey Wardens Malcolm had met with at Weisshaupt. But they were all still at Weisshaupt except for Fiona, who was here with him, and Marius, who was all the way in Tevinter. And the First Warden had agreed to leave the Chantry out of it, anyway. But he couldn’t see where else the Divine would’ve gotten the idea that Morrigan was a maleficar, much less figured out how large of a threat Morrigan posed to Thedas. 

“I am not playing dumb, Prince Malcolm,” said Thierry. “The Divine was the one who told me of this mission.”

Another one of the templars lightly touched the Knight-Commander on the arm. “Ser, if I may?” After Thierry gave him a nod, the young templar said, “My lord, we were told of the maleficar by one of your fellow Wardens. I was present when she was introduced to the Most Holy as Second Warden Astrid of the Anderfels.”

“I should have known. And before you ask, Malcolm, Georg would not have given her permission to tell the Divine,” Fiona said, at some point having moved from the wall to stand quietly between Malcolm and Riordan. “She must have gone on her own.”

“That _bitch_ ,” said Líadan, walking to stand near Fiona. Alistair wasn’t far behind, and the rest of the Wardens in the room had stopped leaning easily against the wall and were paying full attention to the goings-on. It reminded Malcolm of the time he, Alistair, and Eamon had the face-off with Loghain, Cauthrien, and Rendon Howe outside of Denerim’s main city gate.

“In the end,” said the Knight-Commander, “it matters not how the Chantry came across the information about the maleficar. What matters is that Prince Malcolm cooperates to the fullest extent and gives us every bit of information he knows about her.”

Malcolm gave him a truly apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. The best thing for you to do would be to recall all of your templars from this hunt. Continuing to try and find Morrigan would only end in bloodshed. Their bloodshed. They will die if they pursue her.”

The templars behind Thierry started spreading out, while the Knight-Commander moved even closer to Malcolm. His hand snaked out and grasped Malcolm tightly on the upper arm. “If you do not answer my questions, I have been ordered to bring you back to Val Royeaux.”

The ringing of blades being drawn from scabbards sounded throughout the large room. The crackle of magic lifted the hairs on the back of Malcolm’s neck as he glared down at the Orlesian Knight-Commander who held him. A blade appeared at Thierry’s neck, the tip of it digging into its soft flesh. Malcolm recognized the blade from seeing it earlier when he’d noticed the changes made to Líadan’s staff. While she hadn’t summoned her magic, Fiona had, and it snapped readily in the air around them. Riordan remained steadfastly in place, but his hands drifted vaguely toward the hilts of his daggers.

“My friends and I would like to see you try,” Malcolm said quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish Translations:
> 
> -Líadan (to Malcolm): “Emma ir abelas, m’ena ma’din vir dirth’din. Emma isala’tisha, emma souveri dar sulevin’din. Emma… emma felas inan lath. ma emma lath, emma sulevin sahlin. ar tu ven. hamin.”  
> “I’m sorry. You were almost dead and we had not spoken. I am in need of peace, I’m tired of being uncertain. I am… I am slow to see love. You are my love, I am certain now. I must go. Rest.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

“It is not uncommon for the neophyte to mistake apostates and maleficarum as one and the same. Indeed, the Chantry has gone to great lengths over the centuries to establish that this is so. The truth, however, is that while an apostate is often a maleficar, he need not be so. A maleficar is a mage who employs forbidden knowledge such as blood magic and the summoning of demons, whereas an apostate is merely a mage who does not fall under the auspices of the Circle of Magi (and therefore the Chantry). They are hunted by the templars, and quite often they will turn to forbidden knowledge in order to survive, but it would be a lie to say that all apostates begin that way.

Historically, apostates become such in one of two ways: They are either mages who have escaped from the Circle or mages who were never part of it to begin with. This latter category includes what we tend to refer to as ‘hedge mages’—those with magical ability out in the hinterlands who follow a different magical tradition than our own. Some of these hedge mages are not even aware of their nature. Undeveloped, their abilities can express themselves in a variety of ways, which the hedge mage might attribute to faith, or will, or to another being entirely (depending on his nature). Some of these traditions are passed down from generation to generation, as with the so-called ‘witches’ of the Chasind wilders or the ‘shamans’ of the Avvar barbarians.

No matter how a mage has become apostate, the Chantry treats them alike: Templars begin a systematic hunt to bring the apostate to justice. In almost all cases,  ‘justice’ is execution. If there is some overriding reason the mage should live, the Rite of Tranquility is employed instead. Whether we of the Circle of Magi believe this system fair is irrelevant: It is what it is.”

—from _Patterns Within Form_ , by Halden, First Enchanter of Starkhaven, 8:80 Blessed

**Malcolm**

The Orlesian Knight-Commander’s eyes moved nervously to the blade pressing into his throat before slowly looking back up at Malcolm. “Perhaps I have gone about this in the wrong manner.”

“Perhaps you have,” said Malcolm.

Riordan glanced back at his Wardens. “All of you, stay your weapons.” Then he returned his gaze to the posturing templars. “For now.”

The sharp blade at Thierry’s throat slowly withdrew, but the staff remained in Líadan’s hands, at the ready. Fiona’s stave also remained out, however, she did deem to release the magic she held, as did Anders behind them. Alistair returned his sword to his scabbard as he moved to stand next to his younger brother. His easy slouch from earlier had entirely disappeared, replaced by a bearing Malcolm knew he carried only when he was at court. With the Divine seemingly involved in this matter and demanding that an uncooperative Fereldan prince be brought forcibly to Val Royeaux, the king’s involvement was needed. Not that it was a slight to Riordan’s authority, but things had just gotten much more complicated than any of them had anticipated. “As my brother is not a mage, much less a maleficar, you have no authority to take him. I will not allow it,” Alistair told the templar.

“He has duties to attend to here, in Ferelden,” Riordan added. “And, duties to the Fereldan Crown aside, he is a Grey Warden and my second. The Thaw is upon us and there is much to take care of with regard to the darkspawn. These responsibilities must take precedence over any witch hunt the Chantry may be conducting.”

Malcolm resisted glaring at Riordan. Witch hunt? Did he _really_ have to word it like that? Normally, he would have asked the question outright, but he wouldn’t do so in front of these templars. He didn’t want them to think they had divided the Wardens in any way. Astrid had done enough to give that particular impression.

Thierry rubbed at the reddened spot on his neck, eyes now roving between each of the three mages in the room. “There seem to be a lot of mages within the ranks of the Fereldan Wardens,” he said.

An impish grin spread across Malcolm’s face. “Oh, you didn’t hear? I collect mages. One more and I’ll have the whole set!”

Líadan and Alistair snorted, while Riordan let out a small, exasperated sigh. Then he said, “And what of it, Knight-Commander? Mages are quite effective at fighting darkspawn. At any rate, that is not why you are here. You are here to question Malcolm on the matter of Morrigan, are you not?”

The templar glanced uneasily at Malcolm. “Yes.”

“Questions which he will not answer, as he believes it will put lives in danger. The Chantry has been wisely advised that any attempt to find Morrigan will result in death. This mage has proven powerful, yet she is only dangerous when threatened. I surmise that an army of templars searching for her would be threatening indeed,” said Riordan.

“Not to mention fruitless,” Alistair said. “If Morrigan does not wish to be found, she will not be found. It’s as simple as that. Your good men and women need not die so uselessly. Call off your hunt, Knight-Commander. Let go of this plan on bringing my brother back with you, as he will not give you information that would lead to needless deaths. We witnessed far too many of those during the Blight. That is the message you will bring back to the Divine.”

Riordan nodded. “You may go, Knight Commander.”

Thierry blinked at the dismissal and looked toward the king for intervention. Alistair shrugged. “You heard him. He’s the commander here. You do what he says.”

For a moment it seemed Thierry would verbally object. Then he signaled to his templars, spun on his heel, and stalked out of the main hall. Guards flanked them as they left to make sure they actually departed from the Vigil. Two more guards shut the doors to the main hall behind the Orlesian templars. After waiting for a few minutes, Riordan asked for everyone to follow him back to the dining hall, where they could sit and talk about what had happened. It was empty, as Malcolm knew the Warden Commander had planned. The guards in the hall were dismissed to stand outside the doors and allow no one inside. Then Riordan had the mages cast wards of silence throughout the room to ensure privacy before asking everyone to sit down. They needed to talk about the situation, as obviously it had become far more dire than they had thought.

“The _Divine_?” Malcolm said as he dropped into an empty chair. “Astrid went to the Divine. I can’t believe it.” He looked over at Fiona. “And you’re sure she didn’t have the First Warden’s permission?”

“I’m certain,” Fiona said, taking a seat next to Riordan. “For not only would involving the Chantry put more lives in danger, but it would also mean the Chantry finding out about Grey Warden matters that they must not know.”

“More secrets, is it?” said Anders. “Do we get to learn these ones? Please tell me we do. I love being in the know, as it were.”

Malcolm placed his forehead on the table in front of him. “Not this one.”

“That bad, is it?”

“Afraid so,” said Alistair, who glanced at Riordan, and then Malcolm as his brother lifted his head once more. “You’ll have to tell the story, Malcolm. You were at Weisshaupt. Well, Fiona and Líadan were, too, but you were kind of present for pretty much everything that involved Morrigan.” He tilted his head to the side. “You know, I never got to ask you how Weisshaupt was. So, before we get into the not-fun stuff, how was it?”

“Actually,” Malcolm said, the grin from earlier reappearing, “there’s this Anders princess that you really need to meet. I mean, you _really_ need to meet this woman. She has many... assets.”

Across from Malcolm, Líadan clapped her hand over her mouth in a failed attempt to cover a laugh. A hint of a smile tugged at even Fiona’s lips at the comment. Riordan gave the elf a puzzled look, as normally Fiona wasn’t quite as susceptible to the cracks the younger Wardens made. She shrugged helplessly. “You had to be there.”

Riordan sighed, and then looked to Malcolm. “Please, tell everyone what you know. Our new brothers and sisters need to know everything.”

Malcolm cast about to find something to occupy his hands with as he spoke, eventually snagging an apple from a basket that the servants kept out and supplied for the oft-hungry Wardens. As he spun the apple on the polished table in front of him, he explained the complexities of the situation with Morrigan. He left out their first meeting and much of the Blight, starting instead with the offer she’d made the night before the Battle of Denerim. Then he moved on to their suspicions that Zevran had accepted the offer, due to how it had been Riordan, not Zevran, who had given the final blow, and that Riordan had lived. Then he relayed the order that they were to continue to give the story to anyone outside the Order that it had been Zevran who killed the archdemon. Meanwhile, the Order remained convinced that Morrigan’s ritual had worked and that she carried a child with the soul of an Old God, and that they had their own parties out searching for her, even now. “And the Chantry has even less to go on than we do,” Malcolm finished, “because while we’ve got information, they have none, which is why they wanted to question me, I suppose. And since she’s always been an apostate, raised in the Korcari Wilds by Flemeth, they haven’t a phylactery to use to track her.” He frowned. “I’m honestly not sure how the templars intend to find her, really.”

“Incredibly angry is my guess,” said Anders. “At least, that’s how they always find me.”

“I had wondered,” Nathaniel said.

“I’m sure Astrid told them what she knows and they just wanted to see if you had anything to add,” said Fiona, ignoring the side conversation between the rogue and the other mage. Then the elf pulled a pouch out of her pocket and shook the ring inside out onto the table. It clattered and spun in a slow circle before tipping over and settling down. “Our advantage is this ring. Morrigan gave it to Malcolm during the Blight as a means to track him...” she trailed off, a slight frown pulling at the sides of her mouth, and looked at Malcolm. “Why did she say she gave it to you?”

Malcolm squirmed, not wanting to reveal how moody he’d been during much of the Blight. “To track me, like you said. Because I... sort of had a propensity for...”

“Getting into moods and storming off into the forest around camp,” Alistair said. “Once, he even managed to get himself caught on fire.”

“ _That’s_ where the bit about the fire came from!” said Líadan, slapping her palms down on the tabletop.“I’ve been wondering ever since you mentioned it when we were in Orzammar.”

Alistair held up a finger. “Oh, that actually started in the Circle Tower when he kept walking over rage demon remains and they’d burst into flame and promptly burst _him_ into flame. Wait, no, he caught fire at the Tower of Ishal, way before that. Triggered some kind of trap right as we walked in. And he was raving mad about it, too. At the Tower, he even yelled at the pride demon we fought for setting him on fire.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” said Malcolm, glaring at both of them, “that’s why Morrigan gave me the ring. Because I’d wander off at times, not because I tended to catch fire a lot. She said it had been given to her by Flemeth to allow Flemeth to track her. She changed its ability to allow her to track me. And now we’re trying to change the ring’s powers yet again to allow us to track Morrigan.” His gaze shifted to the ceiling for a moment. “And I think that’s everything, so far. Aside from each side of the creepy talking darkspawn now asking after her.”

“They’re probably trying to get to the Old God’s soul,” said Alistair.

Malcolm nodded. “That’s my guess. And everyone else’s, too.”

“But is Morrigan not a maleficar?” Mhairi asked. “Given what you’ve said and what she’s done, it sounds like the work of a maleficar to me. Why would we hinder the Chantry in their attempt to put an end to this maleficar and her work?”

“Because the Chantry’s business is not Grey Warden business,” Alistair told her, an echo of what Duncan had once said to him at Ostagar. “Besides that, the Chantry going after Morrigan will only get templars killed. She and Flemeth used to hunt them for _sport_. Templars are merely an annoyance to them, nothing more. And if your worry is only that Morrigan is a maleficar that must be caught, then be assured: the Grey Wardens stand the best chance at catching her out of any other group on Thedas.”

Mhairi’s light blue eyes moved from Alistair to Malcolm. “Then why is Malcolm not heading up a search party of his own? Surely he knows her the best and therefore would best be able to find her.”

“Aye,” said Oghren, leering, “but the problem is what would he do if he found her?”

“I’m sitting right here, you know,” said Malcolm, glaring at Oghren, and then tossing the apple between each hand to keep himself from doing something mean to the dwarf. At the same time, he wished, once again in his life, that the ground would open beneath him and swallow him up to save him from the embarrassment. “And believe me, whatever it is you’re thinking I might do, you’re wrong.” While Morrigan was certainly a beautiful woman, what she’d done to him replaced any designs he might’ve had on her ever again. He wanted resolution, yes, but nothing carnal like Oghren was implying, even in jest. Putting aside how Morrigan had treated him, he couldn’t shake the image, the sounds of what he’d dreamed he’d heard while in his state of near-sleep. Words softly spoken by a familiar voice in a language he didn’t know, a voice so different from Morrigan’s, and yet welcome in a way Morrigan’s had been at one time. But no longer. And yet, he was sure it’d been a dream. It had to be, as it was _Líadan_ , of all people.

“You’re so certain of that?” Líadan asked. The quiet intensity of her question pushed away the lightheartedness Oghren had tried to introduce to the conversation.

The apple remained in his right hand, as he was unable to toss it again as he caught the meaning behind Líadan’s question. “Yes,” he said, looking straight at her. “I’m certain.”

“And what if the child she carries was yours?” Mhairi asked.

His fingers started pressing into the skin of the apple as his feeling of being trapped grew.  He forced himself to look away from Líadan and at the former knight. “There’s no point to that question because it _isn’t_. I refused the ritual. And I’ve already gone through all of this questioning at Weisshaupt, and I don’t think there’s a question you can think of that the Wardens there haven’t already asked.” Equally as painfully, he didn’t add. 

Mhairi showed no fear in the face of Malcolm’s glare, something he had to begrudgingly give her credit for. “It stands to reason that it _could_ be.”

“I just told you that I refused her. That’s why she left me, you know, in case you were wondering. And what she was probably using me for in the first place, also in case you were wondering. Anything else incredibly painful you’d like me to admit to while we’re at it? Or were you trying to make some sort of coherent point?” he asked, his anger at the entire situation bubbling up and over into his words to Mhairi. Meanwhile, his blunt fingernails managed to break the skin on the apple with a barely audible snap. Both Líadan’s and Fiona’s eyes briefly glanced at the fruit he held at the sound.

“But prior to that you had already... already...” and the tips of Mhairi’s ears reddened as she searched for the right phrase.

“Polished the footstones?” Oghren offered. “Tapped the midnight still, if you will.”

Malcolm leveled another particularly nasty glare at his dwarven friend. “Oghren.”

The dwarf happily ignored him, taking an opportunity Malcolm was beginning to suspect he’d waited months for. “Forged the moaning statue. Bucked the forbidden horse. Donned the velvet hat—”

“Are you just making this up right now?” Alistair asked, thankfully interrupting him.

Oghren grinned widely. “Nope! Been saving ‘em.”

“Was it worth it?” Anders asked.

“Yes, yes it was,” Oghren replied. “I highly recommend trying it. Look how those Theirin boys blush!”

“It doesn’t matter what... happened... before,” Malcolm said to Mhairi. “What Morrigan had in mind required a ritual to draw the Old God’s soul to the child. There was no ritual. And considering how I reacted when she did ask for me to do the ritual, I doubt that she would’ve bothered to ask if there was a child already available and didn’t even need the ritual in the first place. Or something like that.” What he really wanted to do was shout that it wasn’t his child, but a small part of him did wonder. But the reason in him maintained that Morrigan had needed a ritual to be done while creating said child and they’d never done anything of the sort. And no matter what any of the other people present believed, he had no intention of doing anything with Morrigan that could produce a child if he ever found her. He’d loved her. He knew that, in a way, he still did, and he always would. But he didn’t think he could trust her ever again. And personally, for that, he needed trust to exist between them. “It doesn’t matter,” he repeated. “Besides, I’m not looking for her.”

“Not yet, anyway,” Líadan muttered.

Malcolm didn’t acknowledge that he’d heard her. From the flicker of understanding that passed through Fiona’s eyes, he knew that she not only heard, but also agreed. He supposed at after having traveled with the two of them for so long that they knew him well enough to decide that. And if he was honest with himself, he knew it was inevitable that he’d go looking for Morrigan. As soon as there was a break in his duties here, a time when he didn’t feel desperately needed, he would get restless and go, permission given or not. This thing with Morrigan had been left open-ended and he needed it closed. Entirely over and done with and not something hanging over his head and heart.

Riordan stood up. “Right now, that’s what’s going on with Morrigan and why the Chantry cannot be involved. But before we can deal with Morrigan, we must deal with these talking darkspawn. There’s also the matter of reports from the Wending Wood of possible darkspawn attacks.”

“I think they’re making that up so that the Wardens will look into it instead of Bann Esmerelle having to use her guards from Amaranthine City,” said Alistair. “I wouldn’t put it past her. Oh, and Eamon told me that you’re going to have to meet with the banns within a couple days for a formal ceremony where they swear oaths of fealty to you as Arl of Amaranthine, Riordan. I’m sorry about that. Really, I am.”

“Yes, you look terribly broken up about it,” the Warden Commander replied. “There’s no way to get out of it?” Alistair shook his head and Riordan sighed. “Of course not. Well, in addition to having to meet these nobles, we’ve the Wending Wood to investigate, plus Sigrun’s reports about this Kal’Hirol and more talking darkspawn.”

“Don’t forget Highever,” said Malcolm. “I think there’s a Deep Roads entrance near there that’s been overlooked. Possibly up near Drake’s Fall, since no one ever goes there, but I can’t be certain. Anyway, it’s something that needs to be checked.”

Riordan raised an arm toward Malcolm. “Right, and Highever. Though they haven’t been attacked since you left, so that’s a good sign at least. Perhaps the darkspawn are being attracted to us for now.”

“Or maybe they’re after Malcolm, in addition to Morrigan,” Líadan said. “The talking darkspawn we ran into here specifically told the hurlocks with him to capture Malcolm alive because... what exactly was it that he said? ‘The Father said he would know the location of the witch’ or something very similar to that.”

“Or he could’ve just been an opportunist and not after Malcolm specifically,” said Anders.

Malcolm dropped the apple and it hit the table with a thud before rolling onto the floor. Gunnar jumped from his spot sacked out under the table at Malcolm’s feet to snatch up the fallen fruit. “She could be right. I mean...” His mind went back to when the ogre had been squeezing the life out of Líadan and the First had been questioning him. “The talking darkspawn at Highever said that someone it called ‘the Mother’ had told him I would be there with the witch. That I could tell them where Morrigan was.”

Líadan frowned. “I don’t remember that.”

“You were being crushed to death at the time,” Malcolm told her. “So, you were a bit preoccupied with, um, not dying.”

“Were you able to question this First about his knowledge of Morrigan?” Riordan asked as Líadan scowled at Malcolm for his comment.

“No, because I killed it.” Riordan’s raised brows asked for more explanation. With a sigh, Malcolm said, “It kept pressing me about Morrigan and demanding that I tell him where she was. And if I didn’t tell him, he was going to have the ogre that was holding Líadan kill her. Since I have no idea where Morrigan is and couldn’t answer its questions, I killed it instead. That distracted the ogre enough to drop Líadan and come after me.”

Riordan drummed his fingers on the table, and then smiled at Líadan and said, “Better that we have you alive, lass, over getting more information about Morrigan.”

“You know, for a second there, I wasn’t sure you were going to say that,” she replied.

“I’m pragmatic, I’ll admit, but I’m not Anders.”

“You know, I’m almost offended at that,” said Anders. “If I didn’t know you were talking about a nationality, I’d think you all hated me.”

“Perhaps we do anyway,” said Nathaniel.

Anders put a fist over his chest. “You wound me, you know. Right in my tender heart.”

“Back on topic, please,” said Riordan. “I’ll send Malcolm with a few of you out to Wending Wood after we’re done with this mandatory meeting with the Amaranthine nobility. Best if we get that out of the way, even if it ends up not being darkspawn related, so that people can take the faster, standard route between Amaranthine and Denerim. We can’t do much in terms of searching for the Architect or the Mother until they make another move, so once you’ve time to recuperate from your assignment at the Wending Wood, I’ll send a group to investigate the Deep Roads entrance that could be near Highever. With the darkspawn activity being so high here in the northeast, I’ll stay here at the Vigil until things have settled down.” He glanced at Alistair. “I take it you’ll be returning to Denerim soon and not remaining here with us?”

The king scowled and crossed his arms. “As soon as the Wending Wood is made safe, I’ll be returning to Denerim with Arl Eamon. I’d like to stay, but I really can’t.” He looked over at Malcolm, putting on the airs of a salesman.“You sure you don’t want to be king? You can have the job. It’s lovely, I promise.”

“No, no. All yours, brother.”

Alistair sat back, scowling again. “I knew you’d say that.”

Riordan dismissed the group of them, requesting Malcolm and Alistair to meet with him later, with the addition of Eamon. Alistair grumbled about him being king but being bossed around by everyone else then Riordan reminded him that in Warden compounds, Alistair was outranked by him. Then Alistair left to track down Arl Eamon’s whereabouts and let him know about the meeting. Malcolm wandered outside the the Vigil’s yard to see what work had been completed while he’d been unconscious. Up on the battlements, he could see that much of the repairs on the walls had been finished, with just the reconstruction of some of the small outbuildings left to do. The wind picked up in the higher reaches of the fortress and Malcolm climbed down for the warmer environs of the lower yard.

He started trying to think of who he’d bring with him to the Wending Wood if Riordan was going to allow him free reign. Fiona he’d leave here to do research on the Architect and work on the ring. Nathaniel might be a good choice to take, and possibly Oghren. Anders would be invaluable with his healing abilities should they run into something more dangerous than the suspected bandits. He wasn’t sure about Sigrun, as he hadn’t interacted with her much, and she was very much not a surface dwarf yet. Even after a week topside, she still cast uneasy looks up a the sky, as if she expected it to snatch her up and spirit her away at any second. Maybe Mhairi, then, though she’d made him a bit cranky with her questioning earlier. And, of course, there was Líadan, whose very presence made him grateful yet cranky yet uneasy. But her skills as a warrior, mage, and Dalish hunter would be a perfect compliment to searching out bandits in the forest. It would be irresponsible and stupid of him not to ask her to go.

He squinted at the yard, where a number of guards were sparring, and Alistair and Eamon leaned against the wooden fence, chatting. The arl looked much the same as he had when Malcolm had left, even leaving his beard as long as it’d gotten while he’d been ill during the Blight. Remembering how itchy the week’s worth of growth had made him, Malcolm idly rubbed at his now clean-shaven face.

“Yes, you look much less ridiculous without the beard,” came Líadan’s voice from beside him.

“Good to know that you won’t be collapsing into uproarious laughter in combat, then,” he replied, keeping his eyes on Eamon. As if he’d noticed the scrutiny, Eamon’s gaze moved over from the sparring guards and across the yard at Malcolm and Líadan. Then Malcolm could’ve sworn the arl’s eyes narrowed into a glare, though he couldn’t figure out why the arl would be mad at him. Like he’d told Alistair earlier, he hadn’t had time to do anything that would’ve irritated the arl.

“He’s glaring at me,” Líadan said. “Why is he glaring at me?”

Malcolm’s eyes slid over to the elf standing at his side. “I thought he was glaring at me! What did you do?”

“I don’t know! What did _you_ do?”

His brow furrowed in thought and, yet again, he came up with nothing untoward he could’ve done. Certainly not while unconscious. “Nothing I can think of offhand.”

“Then why did you assume he was glaring at you?” Líadan asked over the clanging of swords and the dulled smacks of shields colliding.

Malcolm shrugged. “Because he’s pretty much always glaring at me. He does a lot of pre-emptive glares, just so he’s ready when the real glaring-time arrives.” As he talked, both Eamon and Alistair had pushed themselves off the fence. Alistair walked quickly in the direction of the keep, while Eamon strode towards Malcolm and Líadan. “Don’t look now, but he’s coming this way.”

“I’m fairly certain he’s glaring at me,” Líadan said, the lightheartedness they’d just shared fading away as Eamon got closer. Malcolm turned his attention to the approaching arl, trying to figure out if the man really was glaring at the elf and not him. Líadan was still speaking, “And since I really don’t want to get into another argument with him, I’m not sticking around. I guess I’ll see you later.”

“You don’t have to—” he started, looking toward her, but she was already gone, having hopped the fence and walked towards where the soldiers waited for their chance to spar. He frowned in the direction of the sparring guards, two new ones this time. Another argument? When had she gotten into an argument with Eamon prior to this? He knew he had, certainly. It was his specialty to get into arguments with the arl, especially near the end of the Blight, just before the Landsmeet. Usually they were about Morrigan and how he should break it off with... ah. That was it, then. Apparently Eamon was sticking his head where it didn’t belong and into a spot where there wasn’t anything to be broken up in the first place. They were just very good friends, no matter what they’d almost talked about or thought or done. Or what he might’ve dreamed that she’d said. And even if she _had_ talked to him, she could’ve been swearing at him like Alistair mentioned. He didn’t speak any Elvish, so he wouldn’t know the difference. There was that bit of conversation between her and Fiona he might’ve overheard, but that might’ve been a dream, too. Probably was, in fact. And whatever was or wasn’t developing between him and Líadan, it was between the two of them, and Eamon had no right to say anything about it. 

Malcolm leaned up against the fence, folding his arms over it and resting his chin on his arms, content to watch the guards spar. They were surprisingly good, and he suspected they had to be since they managed to survive the darkspawn attack while the Orlesian Wardens had not. That was odd, too, that they’d all been captured or killed. The other Orlesian Wardens—or, Wardens from Orlais since two of them claimed to be Fereldan by birth—he’d known were great warriors. But if those Orlesians who’d been stationed here had been overwhelmed so easily, then Duncan and Riordan and Fiona were obviously of a much higher caliber than the standard Orlesian Warden. A smile cracked through the previous seriousness of his features, realizing that perhaps if they’d had the help of the Orlesian Wardens during the Blight, it wouldn’t have been the help they’d thought, after all the worry at getting it. 

Arl Eamon finally reached where Malcolm stood and leaned against the fence next to him. “It’s good to see you up and about,” Eamon said. 

“And you’re looking well,” Malcolm replied, trying to be amiable. He knew Eamon wasn’t a bad man, and in some ways, he rather liked him. Eamon was just a staunch royalist and very determined to keep the Theirin bloodline both going and on Ferelden’s throne. He also had the misfortune of an Orlesian wife, but she was blessedly not present. Malcolm motioned towards his jaw. “Kept the long beard, I see.”

“I haven’t decided if I want to keep it or shave it yet.”

“It _has_ been months, you know,” Malcolm pointed out.

“Yes, it has,” said Eamon, pointing out something entirely different.

Malcolm got it. Yes, it had been months since he’d been in Ferelden, but he wasn’t about to acknowledge that to Eamon. So he kept quiet and watched the sparring in front of him, taking note that Líadan had finally stepped in, newly modified staff out and spinning in some complicated, yet graceful movements. The guard chosen to spar with her looked at the staff nervously, though Malcolm felt the staff could be defended against like any pike or halberd. The soldier finally overcame his reticence enough to engage in the fight, his sword and dagger providing a good counterpoint to Líadan’s staff. She held back on using magic, which, Malcolm thought, was only fair in a fight like this. The soldier left himself open in the back and Líadan used the opportunity, hooking the man’s leg with her staff and tripping him onto his back. She tapped him with the flat of her blade on the side of his neck for a point. After she’d helped the man up, her eyes flicked over to where Malcolm stood. He gave her a small smile, feeling oddly proud at her skill. She grinned in return, and then went back to beating up on the poor soldier.

The looks and smiles didn’t escape Eamon’s notice. Once the sparring match had resumed, he glanced over at young man beside him and asked, “Really?”

Malcolm, on his part, didn’t feel like having this conversation with Eamon. Honestly, he’d had enough of them already to last a lifetime. Two lifetimes, even. “Really, what?” he said. “If this is a guessing game, it could go on for quite a while. I’m awful at guessing games. In fact, my guesses usually involve bellybutton lint or mythical creatures.” Then he leaned closer to Eamon and whispered conspiratorially, “And sometimes, both.”

The arl had no intentions of levity. “An elf?”

Malcolm put distance between himself and Eamon again. “Has pointed ears? Really, I’m not seeing where you’re going with this.”

“Líadan,” Eamon said. 

“ _Dalish_ elf. Also a mage. Is this a word association game? Because I can come up with way better words in reference to Líadan.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Then Eamon heaved one of his long-suffering sighs.

“That’s more than one word. Plus, sigh isn’t even a word. Well, it _is_ a word, but not when you’re doing the action _of_ a sigh. So... not a word association game, then?”

“This is not a game!”

Malcolm looked over at him, nonplussed. “Then what is it? Because if it’s what I think it is, there’s nothing to talk about.”

Eamon looked from Malcolm to where Líadan stood triumphantly over the poor sod who’d sparred her. Yet despite her victory, Líadan’s gaze was on Malcolm and Eamon, concerned and unsure. Then Eamon looked back at Malcolm. “You keep telling yourself that,” he said, and walked away, leaving the argument for another time. 


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

“There are those who would tell you that the Chantry is the same everywhere as it is here, that the Divine in Val Royeaux reigns supreme in the eyes of the Maker and that this fact is unquestioned throughout Thedas.

Do not believe it.

The Maker’s second commandment, ‘Magic must serve man, not rule over him,’ never held the same meaning within the ancient Tevinter Imperium as it did elsewhere. The Chantry there interpreted the rule as meaning that mages should never control the minds of other men, and that otherwise their magic should benefit the rulers of men as much as possible. When the clerics of Tevinter altered the Chant of Light to reflect this interpretation of the commandment, the Divine in Val Royeaux ordered the clerics to revert to the original Chant. They refused, claiming corruption within Val Royeaux, an argument that grew until, in 4:87 Towers, the Chantry in Tevinter elected its own ‘legitimate and uncorrupted’ Divine Valhail—who was not only male, but also happened to be one of the most prominent members of the Tevinter Circle of Magi. This ‘Black Divine’ was reviled outside Tevinter, his existence an offense to the Chantry in Val Royeaux.

After four Exalted Marches to dislodge these ‘rebels,’ all that the Chantry in Val Royeaux accomplished was to cement the separation. While most of the aspects of the Imperial Chantry’s teachings are the same, prohibitions against magic have been weakened, and male priests have become more prevalent. The Circle of Magi today rules Tevinter directly, ever since Archon Nomaran was elected in 7:34 Storm directly from the ranks of the enchanters, to great applause from the public. He dispensed with the old rules forbidding mages from taking part in politics, and within a century, the true rulers within the various imperial houses—the mages—took their places openly within the government. The Imperial Divine is now always drawn from the ranks of the first enchanters and operates as Divine and Grant Enchanter both.

This is utter heresy to any member of the Chantry outside of Tevinter, a return to the days of the magisters, which brought the Blights down upon us. But it exists, and even though we have left the Tevinter Imperium to the mercies of the dread qunari, still they have endured. Further confrontation between the Black Divine and our so-called ‘White Divine’ is inevitable.”

—from _Edicts of the Black Divine_ , by Father David of Qarinus, 8:11 Blessed

**Malcolm**

The banns of the arling had started to arrive, and it was barely past sunup. Malcolm scowled at the horizon, wishing the sun would drop back below the ocean and let him return to bed. Even though he’d been unconscious for week, he still hadn’t caught up on the sleep deficit he’d incurred during the Blight. Most likely, he’d never catch up on that, but it didn’t stop him from wanting to try, and from hating the sunrise as a result. The yard outside was mostly empty, as the banns were going straight to the stables and being escorted away to various guest rooms to wait for Riordan to meet them all at the same time. Autumn had crept in during the night and the chill of winter right behind it. Leaves on the few trees inside the walls were already starting to turn, catching up with their brethren higher up on the mountain. There was no hint of the sea today, something that the Vigil usually lacked. Wanting something to remind him of Highever and home, the place he really _wanted_ to be, Malcolm climbed to the highest tower. Normally it was unmanned, as the tower in ancient times had been used to watch for Tevinter invasion fleets, and that was something no one had to watch out for any longer. Nowadays, it was Tevinter stuck on watch, always waiting to see when the newest qunari fleet would launch an attack in their perpetual war. The rest of Thedas had brokered an uneasy peace with the qunari centuries ago, allowing them to maintain their mild influence on Rivain and the land they had conquered in Seheron. He’d also learned at Weisshaupt that even the qunari respected the Grey Wardens and would never go to war with them. Interesting. Since the qunari were far from Andrastian, he wondered where they believed the darkspawn came from. Then again, they might not even care about the genesis of the beings, instead believing that all that was important was that they existed and that they should not continue to do so.

Malcolm pushed open the trap door with his shoulder and climbed the few remaining stairs onto the top of the tower. From a spot next to the parapet, he could see the edges of the bannorn to the south with the Hafter River winding through the farmlands. To the east and north waited the deep blue of the Waking Sea, the merchant ships with their colorful sails as small as bath toys. Northeast was the island of Brandel’s Reach. And west was the tiny dot of Highever, with Drake’s Fall rising in the distance behind it. His childhood home was two days away by normal travel. Pushing a horse to its ultimate limits could possibly get him there in a day. But with only him being there, it would accomplish nothing. He couldn’t go off alone and do any good there. He had to do what was needed here, and then go, as Riordan had said they would. He sighed, and his eyes were drawn towards the northwest.

The direction where the ring had told him Morrigan was. Of course, that made sense, given that the last reports they’d had of Morrigan had said Cumberland, and then the Vimmark Mountains. And, of course, the Vimmark Mountains were splayed across the entire southern tip of the Free Marches, the range’s southern part ending in the Planasene Forest, and its northern edge petering out near Ostwick and the Amaranthine Ocean. Yes, the ring was doing a fantastic job at helping them find Morrigan. He stared in the direction of the mountains anyway, just across the Waking Sea, trying to see if he could feel any sort of connection and came up with nothing. It’d been a long shot, given that Fiona still had the ring in her possession, but he had to try. He sighed again.

“There you are,” Alistair said from behind him.

“Here I am,” Malcolm replied, not bothering to turn. 

“When Nathaniel told me you could see all the way to the ocean from up here, I thought this might be a good place to find you.” Alistair had forgone his plate armor in favor of the comparatively simple, yet still extraordinarily shiny, heavy chainmail the dwarves had given him on their visit to Orzammar during the Blight. His steps were fairly quiet as he moved to stand next to his younger brother. “You tend to like being able to see or smell or hear the sea. Whenever we had the chance to during the Blight, you’d always end up near it.”

“Reminds me of home.” Malcolm looked toward Highever once again.

“It doesn’t... remind you of other things?”

Malcolm briefly shut his eyes. “If we could _not_ talk about that, it would be fantastic.”

“All right, all right. But I have another uncomfortable thing to talk about.”

One eye opened, and Malcolm slid it in the direction of his brother. “What’s that?”

Alistair shifted his weight from foot to foot. “The elf who came back with you.”

Both eyes popped open. “Líadan? This is starting to seem like a strange chat Eamon and I had yesterday. Let me tell you what I told him: there is nothing to talk about.” Malcolm frowned at the vista below, remembering that this was Alistair and not Eamon, and Alistair he could be honest with. Sometimes, he could be more honest with Alistair than he could with himself. “At least, I don’t think there is. I don’t know.”

“That—whatever _that_ is—isn’t what or who I was referring to. I meant the other elf. Fiona. You know, the one who just _happens_ to have the same name as our mother.”

Malcolm immediately spun to look at the open trapdoor behind them. “You can’t talk about that here! Are you insane? Yes, yes you are insane. I don’t even know why I ask anymore. You should know better than—”

Alistair held up a hand. “Líadan is waiting at the bottom of the tower stairs. She cast a ward for silence and is now glaring menacingly at anyone who passes by and even peeks at the door to the tower. I’d forgotten how scary her glare can be with those tattoos. Anyway, she isn’t the elf I was talking about and it’s safe for us to talk right now. So, is—”

“Yes.”

A moment of silence. “Huh. But she’s so _tiny_. Clearly we must’ve gotten our height from her, right?” Alistair playfully pushed Malcolm on the arm. “Come on. You’ve spent months in her company. What’s she like?”

He shrugged. “Hard to describe, really, but I’ll try. Um, she’s a very talented mage. Great warrior. You should see her take apart darkspawn, it’s an awesome thing to behold. She can be very outspoken. Oh, and she’s got a wicked sense of humor, but she hides it like Duncan did, and how Riordan does now. You know, how they pretend to be exasperated by anything we do or say, but how on the inside, they’re dying laughing. She’s nice, but plays her cards pretty close. I think I can see why Maric loved her.” Malcolm paused, and then turned and leaned against the low wall, looking across the top of the tower and east toward the Amaranthine Ocean. “I don’t even know what to _call_ her, really. I mean, here, we have to call her Fiona, I suppose, otherwise it could get ugly with the bannorn. I should be relieved, actually, because that keeps me from having to not refer to her by anything. It was getting kind of awkward. But she and I haven’t really talked about the whole ‘hey, aren’t you the woman who gave birth to me’ thing. Líadan tried to make us talk about it and it totally failed. We both just kind of stared at each other in shock that someone else had brought it up instead of us, and then another Senior Warden came into the room and Fiona pretty much ran away. Let me tell you, it was the most awkward moment of my entire life. And if _she_ hadn’t bolted, _I_ would have. ”

Alistair chuckled. “Good to know you came by that sort of thing honestly.”

“Very funny. Anyway, I probably know her as well as you do, which is to say, not really very well at all. Come to think of it, the person who probably knows her the best at this point, other than Riordan, is Líadan. She spends the most time with her doing elf-mage-things.”

The king also leaned against the stone wall. “Elf-mage-things?”

“That’s the best description I can come up with. Sometimes they’re working on Morrigan’s ring, other times they’re working on spells or whatever. Fiona has been trying to teach Líadan how to heal.”

“Didn’t Wynne try to each her that and failed? Is Fiona really faring any better?”

“I don’t think so. It doesn’t look to be taking, anyway. I’m sure I’ll ask at some point and Líadan will punch me in the shoulder for asking the question. But, Líadan taught Fiona some of those arcane warrior spells so that Fiona doesn’t have to deal with the extra fatigue from wearing her chainmail hauberk. The exchange for it was supposed to be Líadan learning how to heal, so I guess they’ve yet to give that up.”

“Speaking of the healing thing, when you were in that coma, Líadan complained to _me_ , of all people, that she couldn’t do anything to help you. Not sure why she talked to me, exactly, but she did. Fiona overheard and told her that talking to you helped more than Líadan assumed. Or something like that. I was busy trying to get away because I didn’t want Líadan to somehow transfer her anger at herself over to me because you know as well as I do how painful it gets when she’s mad at you. Ha, maybe that’s when she went in and started swearing at you in your sleep.”

Malcolm squinted and turned his head when the sunlight flared against the sea. “Maybe.”

When his brother didn’t offer any additional conversation, Alistair asked, “So, what was Weisshaupt really like? Aside from the princess with... assets?”

“Cold.” Malcolm shivered at the very memory of the icy chill of Weisshaupt Fortress. “And big. I kept getting lost. If Líadan hadn’t been there, I’d probably still be there, lost and alone and a forlorn ghost or something. The Wardens there are... determined, especially the Anders ones. They really only care about killing darkspawn. Especially the Second Warden, Astrid. She’s a right cold bitch, actually, if there ever was one. There was another Senior Warden there, from Tevinter, his name was Marius. I didn’t like him at first, mostly because he kept saying that I should’ve killed Morrigan right after she offered me that deal, but he took it back later. He was determined, but not overly so, and ended up being fair-minded after all. Georg, the First Warden, I think you’d like him. He’s Nevarran, too, not Anders, like the Second Warden. I guess that’s a point in his favor. He reminded me a little of Riordan and Duncan, also points in his favor. Oh, and they also knew about Fiona and you and me. I mean, the First Warden and the Second Warden and the Sen...” he trailed off, spun around, and kicked at the stone parapet. “Blast it, why didn’t I realize it before?”

Alistair straightened immediately, nearly alert enough for battle. “What?”

“The Second Warden knows who Fiona is. Astrid, the woman who went to the Divine without permission from the First Warden, knows that the mother of Ferelden’s king is an elf and mage. If she told the Divine, who is Orlesian to the core, then Ferelden is in more danger than just these strange talking darkspawn. A few words whispered to the bannorn through bards and all of Ferelden could be destabilized. Once those templars get back to the Divine without me, that could be their next step.”

“Do you really think Astrid would tell the Divine about who Fiona really is?”

“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. It isn’t exactly one of those super-important Grey Warden secrets, like the whole ‘Urthemiel could still be alive’ deal. And even if Astrid went to the Divine without Georg’s permission, she’s still a Grey Warden.” Malcolm traced a line of mortar between two of the stones in the parapet with his finger. “She just believed that the best chance at catching Morrigan meant involving the Chantry—Astrid, like many other Anders, is a very devout Andrastian. I don’t think she’s told the Divine yet, or the templars would’ve said something about it to force me to go with them. But, Astrid has shown that she’ll do anything that she thinks will help catch Morrigan. So if she believes that telling the Divine who the true natural mother of the current King of Ferelden is, she’ll tell her.” Malcolm quickly wiped the dust from his hand and looked at Alistair. “We need to tell Riordan.”

The king winced. “And probably Eamon. He’ll be hopping mad.”

Alistair was right. When the two of them gathered into Riordan’s office with the Warden Commander, the arl, Fiona, and Líadan—as she had also been to Weisshaupt—and then told Eamon about the extra danger Astrid posed to Ferelden, Eamon didn’t take the news well at all. He was up and pacing, not saying a word, but everyone else in the room could tell he was fuming. It didn’t help the situation that Fiona glared at Eamon whenever they were in the same room together, and even with the revelation that Malcolm and Alistair shared with them, Fiona kept glaring at the arl. Not that Malcolm could really blame her, as Eamon had been instrumental in the mage’s eldest son nearly becoming a templar.

Riordan ignored Eamon and turned to Fiona. “You’ve known Astrid the longest. Do you think she’d do it? Tell the Divine?”

The elf broke off her glare and looked at Riordan. “If she believes it will help her catch or kill Morrigan, then yes, she would. The question remains of if will it help her cause or not. In theory, Astrid knows everything that Malcolm knows, so I don’t see why the Divine wanted to question Malcolm, unless Astrid hasn’t told them everything she knows about Morrigan. The thing is, Astrid _is_ loyal to the Grey Wardens, even if it looks like she isn’t right now.”

Eamon spun on his heel. “Why are we talking about Morrigan? Why is the Chantry now suddenly looking for her and not calling her an apostate, but a maleficar?” He settled a glare on Malcolm. “What has she done?”

Malcolm balked at the depth of the arl’s anger. He’d thought Eamon would be angry, yes, but not like this. Well, about Fiona and the mother issue and the Second Warden knowing. But, Morrigan was a particularly sore spot between him and Eamon and they’d never really put the issue to rest, as Morrigan had just up and left and they’d never spoken about it again. “I...” He looked over at Riordan for help. 

It was Alistair who spoke up, saying, “He’s the Chancellor of Ferelden right now, so he should probably know. I mean, in a way, it also involves the security of the country.”

Riordan gave Malcolm a slight nod for permission to tell the arl. Slowly and warily, Malcolm relayed the story about Morrigan’s offer, how it had been Riordan who’d given the final blow and lived, how they’d figured out that Zevran must have taken Morrigan’s deal, and that now the Grey Wardens were looking for Morrigan, because they had no idea what the presence of a reborn, untainted Old God would mean. “For all we know, it could be a good thing. Or a really, really bad thing,” he finished.

“Probably bad,” Alistair mumbled. “Optimism just not working in this situation.”

Eamon leveled a finger at Malcolm. “You should have left that witch sooner.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Please don’t bring up this old argument again. What’s done is done. And I never left her, _she_ left _me_ after I refused her offer. And it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d left her anyway, because she went to someone else.”

“I knew she was bad news from the moment I saw her,” Eamon continued.

“She saved your son from a demon!” Malcolm shouted, his own anger pushing him to his feet to face the arl. “Did you forget that part? She’s the person who went into the Fade to kill the demon who had nearly possessed your son. If not for her, Connor would be dead. Maybe you should remember that when you try to condemn her entirely. What she did at the end of the Blight was horrible, I will grant you that. She betrayed me that night, she made a mockery of how I felt about her, and she betrayed everyone she had called a friend with what she did. She did enough _good_ things that seeing her betrayal coming was practically impossible.” Not only did Eamon’s words feel like they were punching him in the gut, he was doing the same to himself with his own words, wielding the truth like a club.

“She certainly fooled you well enough,” said Eamon, in a tone rising to match the volume of Malcolm’s. “If you had thought with your head instead of—”

“She fooled _all_ of us, Eamon,” said Alistair, standing up. “Not just my brother.”

The arl ignored Alistair, keeping his heated glare on Malcolm. “You told me that you loved her. Was that not true? Or was it so true that when she revealed her real plans, you couldn’t bring yourself to stop her from completing them? You had to know her well enough to know that she wouldn’t give them up just because you told her no. You allowed what you thought was love to blind you to what your duty was and you need to recognize that. We’re all going to pay for—”

“He’s already gotten all this from Weisshaupt,” said Líadan, cutting off Eamon’s tirade. “He certainly doesn’t need to hear it again.”

Eamon pointed at Líadan. “You stay out of this. I daresay you’re nearly as bad as that witch was.”

“What? What is _wrong_ with you, Eamon?” said Malcolm, the disbelief at hearing what Eamon had just said making his voice a near-whisper instead of the shout he wanted it to be.

Líadan got to her feet, but to her credit, did not pull a weapon or summon magic. “I have no intention of staying out of anything. I am a Grey Warden. I was there. I fought at Morrigan’s side just as Malcolm and Alistair did and I was as much fooled by that woman as any of us were. I went to Weisshaupt and listened to all of these arguments before. I’ve watched as an entire panel picked Malcolm apart like you’re trying to do right now, and the results weren’t anything more than you’d get if you continued. What’s over is over and there’s no sense in continuing to poke at it. So I am _not_ staying out of this, no matter how much you might want me to for whatever reason you think is important.”

Eamon finally turned to face the elf. “What’s important to me, young lady, is my country. Ferelden is what’s important to me. Ferelden and its future. It’s something _you_ have no cause to worry about, because you are—”

“Dalish?” Líadan finished for him. “Right. Obviously I haven’t a care in the world about a country that my former clan lives in. That makes complete sense. Oh, wait, no it doesn’t.”

Alistair leaned over to Malcolm and whispered, “I don’t know exactly what they’re arguing about, but I don’t think it’s Morrigan.”

Eamon shouted at Líadan, “You have no idea what you’re dealing with and you would do well to stay out of it!” 

“If you could be a nice king and put a stop to it, I think we’d all be grateful,” Malcolm whispered back to his brother. “And how is it that she’s not zapped him yet?”

“If I don’t know, why don’t you _tell_ me so that I can be informed?” Líadan asked the arl.

Alistair made a exaggerated show of looking out the window. “The day is well started, and Eamon and I were leaving for Highever today.” He looked at the arl. “I suspect it’s more than time for us to get underway, is it not? Fergus is expecting us in two days. It wouldn’t do for us to be late.”

Malcolm held in a sigh, remembering the agreement they’d come to about the banns swearing fealty to Riordan. Having Eamon and Alistair there stood the chance of either looking like banns were being forced by the Crown to swear to Riordan or  the Crown was undermining Riordan’s authority. To keep that from happening, Alistair and Eamon were going to spend some time in Highever under the guise of Alistair rendering judgement on the rogue templars. Unfortunately, it meant missing out on his brother’s company for even more time, as all the kingly duties tended to do. Thing was, he missed his brother. He missed his goofy sense of humor and often surprisingly good advice. Though Alistair could be awkward—thought he’d much improved since becoming king—a lot of the time, he ended up saying just the right thing.

Eamon inhaled sharply and reluctantly looked from Líadan to Alistair. “I suppose you’re right. We should be on our way before more banns from Amaranthine arrive.” Then he went back to Líadan. “But this conversation is far from over.”

Alistair shot Líadan an apologetic look as he hustled the arl out of the study before someone entirely lost their temper. When the door shut behind them, the people left behind all exhaled sighs of relief. “That was impressively tense,” Fiona said after a moment.

“That’s normal with Eamon. Well, at least where I’m concerned,” said Malcolm. “During the Blight, he and I had some epic shouting matches at Redcliffe Castle. More than once, the guards thought one of us was killing the other.”

Líadan scowled toward the closed door. “Maybe it would’ve been better if you had.” Then she sighed, dropped the scowl, and turned to Malcolm. “Why is he so mad at me, anyway?”

“I’ve no idea. I’m sorry, I wish I knew.” He shrugged apologetically, and then tried to be cheerful. “I guess we can share the same doghouse. Anyway, he’s going to Highever, so we’re rid of him for the time being. Plus, we have our awesome little side trip to the Wending Wood to say hello to some darkspawn or bandits. That’s something to look forward to, right?”

“Only if I can hit them with lightning,” she said.

“Oh, yes, nice restraint, by the way, in not zapping the arl. Well done.”

“Yes, anything to better the diplomatic relations between the Dalish and Ferelden.” The scowl returned to Líadan’s face and she looked away from Malcolm and out the window. 

Malcolm looked helplessly at Riordan, who offered him nothing but a slight shrug, as clueless as the rest of them. Fiona was studying Líadan thoughtfully, but said nothing. “We should probably get Seneschal Varel and figure out when to hold the fealty ceremony,” Malcolm finally said, wanting a subject change if they weren’t going to figure anything out about the argument between Líadan and Eamon. “Sooner we get that done, the sooner we can leave for the Wending Wood. Oh, and the sooner it will be over, Riordan.”

“I hate Fergus,” the commander replied.

“And you used to tell me to stop thinking that I hated my brother,” said Malcolm. 

“I was talking about Alistair, not Fergus.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “Were you?”

“Come to think of it, I’m not sure. Either way, both of them can go—”

A knock sounded on the door. “Warden Commander?” came the gravely voice of the seneschal. “I have messages for you. One of them you are requested by the First Warden to read and reply to immediately.”

As Malcolm was already standing, he opened the door and gestured for Varel to enter, wondering what was going on. Was it about Astrid? If it was to warn them about her defection, it was a bit too late for that. The seneschal handed Riordan the message as Malcolm closed the door behind them and sat down on the bench near the window. 

“We were about to send for you, actually,” said Riordan. “Nice timing.” Then he pried open the letter, read it, and frowned. After a moment of tapping at it with his index finger, Riordan looked up at Varel. “Where is the man who brought this?”

“He’s in the dining hall, Commander. He told me that he needs your reply as soon as possible and that he must leave the moment he has it.”

“What is it?” Fiona asked Riordan.

He wordlessly handed her the message. As Fiona read, Líadan moved and sat on the bench near Malcolm, the window directly behind her. They exchanged uneasy looks as they waited for Fiona to finish reading. A shadow of sadness passed through Fiona’s eyes and she neatly folded up the message. At the questioning looks from the two younger Wardens, she said, “Marius never reported back to Weisshaupt. He’s listed as missing, but Georg fears that he has been killed. He wants to know if we’ve heard anything about Tevinters being in this area. He also mentions that Astrid has gone missing, and requests that we let him know if we hear from her.”

“Which we have, in a way,” said Malcolm, “if those templars were any indication.”

Riordan nodded, already pulling paper, quill, and inkwell from his desk. “Yes, they were. I can’t imagine the First Warden will be pleased.” Items gathered, he glanced over at Varel. “And these other messages you have? Please tell me they aren’t what I think they are.”

Varel cleared his throat, and then said, “I’m afraid they are, Commander. There was a report from Amaranthine City that people noticed men acting strangely near the city’s docks and speaking in Arcanum. When people encountered them, they asked where the Grey Wardens were, which is why they notified us. There are similar reports from West Hill and Highever.”

The Warden Commander cursed under his breath and started writing a reply. 

“I don’t understand,” said Líadan. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not thrilled that Marius is missing and probably dead, as he turned out to be an all right guy, but why are we reacting like this is as bad as Astrid going to the Divine?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment,” Riordan said. Then he folded up the message, poured the sealing wax over the flap, stamped his insignia, and handed it to Varel. “See that the messenger has a fresh horse, food, and gear for the road. That will be all.” The seneschal nodded once and quickly left the room, letter in hand. Once the door was closed, Riordan faced the young elf again. “Marius had been assigned a mission in Tevinter that covered two things: one, making sure the archons who still worshipped the Old Gods didn’t know about Morrigan and, two, researching the Old Gods to see if what Morrigan did is a danger at all. If Marius was captured then we can be certain that the more unsavory archons know about Morrigan. From this, we can assume that they will be after her. As evidenced by Tevinters apparently arriving at our veritable doorstep and asking about Grey Wardens, our assumption might prove to be true.”

“So more people are after us or are after Morrigan?” Líadan asked.

Malcolm started fidgeting, his foot bouncing against the floorboards.

“Both, I believe,” said Fiona. “Which only adds to our problems.”

Líadan grabbed his leg just above the knee and squeezed, hard. “ _Stop_ that. You are not getting anything fixed faster when you do that.”

“It makes me feel better,” he grumbled, crossing his arms. 

The elf applied more pressure. “Are you sure?”

“Ow! Okay, okay, I’ll stop.” Then he scooted further down the bench and out of Líadan’s striking distance. Though, if he annoyed her well enough, nowhere was truly out of her range and ability to strike. He looked up to find the other people in the room watching the two of them curiously. Riordan couldn’t hide the amusement quirking his lips. Fiona, on her part, looked strangely concerned in some way. “So most of Thedas is looking for Morrigan now, I gather? And us, in a way?” Malcolm asked.

Riordan scribbled something on the piece of paper in front of him. “Thus far, we’ve the Grey Wardens, the Chantry, the Architect, the Mother, and now Tevinter. Four of those five factions are after us as well, due to our knowledge of Morrigan. So, yes, pretty much all of Thedas is after us and Morrigan.”

Malcolm uncrossed his arms and placed his palms flat against the bench on either side of him. Then he dropped his head back so that it leaned against the cool glass of the window, eyes focused on the ceiling above him as he tried to wrestle through the problem in his mind. It was all crowding together, gathering into a giant snarl that just kept getting more and more complicated instead of anything getting solved. “The qunari aren’t after her, as far as we know.”

“Don’t tempt fate, lad. For all you know, Seneschal Varel will knock on that door within the next five minutes and tell me that there’s a qunari invasion fleet that’s been sighted off the coast,” Riordan said as he tossed the quill on top of the papers.

The four of them looked expectantly toward the door. 

Nothing happened. 

“At any rate, there isn’t much we can do.” Riordan picked up the quill again, glared at it, and scribbled something else. “Eventually the Tevinters will find their way here and we’ll deal with them when that happens. Of course, we’ll not give them any additional information. And, if one of them is a mage, we can perhaps even involve the Chantry by intimating that the mage is a blood mage, setting them to antagonizing each other and leaving us out of it entirely.”

“That is amazingly devious,” Fiona said, lips quirking into an appreciative smirk. “And it might even work.”

Líadan gave Fiona and Riordan a puzzled look. “Why’s that? Is this more to do with your Chantry?”

Riordan nodded to Fiona, asking her to explain while he continued to write whatever it was he was working on. “It goes back to how the Chantry tells us where the darkspawn came from and how it was the ancient Tevinter magisters who started the First Blight,” Fiona said. “How they got into the Fade while still in their bodies was through the use of an extraordinary amount of lyrium and blood magic. The story is much more complicated than that, of course. But, long story short, the Chantry has no issues with believing any accusation that a Tevinter mage could be a blood mage in disguise.”

“Oh, well played, then, Riordan.” Líadan gave the Warden Commander an approving nod. “And speaking of the ancient Tevinters, I remember something I learned when I was a child. Funny thing—it was the ancient elves, well, some of the first elven slaves I guess, who taught the Tevinters how to use lyrium to be able to cross into the Beyond—the Fade—in their bodies, without having to fall asleep.”

“But instead of using more lyrium to power their spells, the magisters turned to their blood magic to fuel part of it,” Fiona said, brow furrowing in thought. “And they learned this from the ancient elves, did they? I mean, they lyrium, not the blood magic.”

“That’s what I was taught.” A half-smile touched Líadan’s lips. “Marethari would be proud that I remembered that, actually. She never thought I was paying attention.” Then sadness swept away the smile with the memory of her sudden departure from her clan.

Malcolm noticed. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged off the comfort. “Not your fault.”

“That isn’t what you _used_ to say,” said Riordan, without looking up, but smirking nonetheless. “In fact, I’m not even sure if I can repeat what—”

A knock sounded at the door. 


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

“You ask what happened to Arlathan? Sadly, we do not know. Even those of us who keep the ancient lore have no record of what truly happened. What we have are accounts of the days before the fall, and a fable of the whims of gods.

The human world was changing even as the elves slept. Clans and tribes gave way to a powerful empire called Tevinter, which—and for what reason we do not know—moved to conquer Elvhenan. When they breached the great city of Arlathan, our people, fearful of disease and loss of immortality, chose to flee rather than fight. With magic, demons, and even dragons at their behest, the Tevinter Imperium marched easily through Arlathan, destroying homes and galleries and amphitheaters that had stood for ages. Our people were corralled as slaves, and human contact quickened their veins until every captured elf turned mortal. The elves called to their ancient gods, but there was no answer.

As to why the gods didn’t answer, our people left only a legend. They say that Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf and Lord of Tricksters, approached the ancient gods of good and evil and proposed a truce. The gods of good would remove themselves to heaven, and the lords of evil would exile themselves to the abyss, neither group to ever again enter the other’s lands. But the gods did not know that Fen’Harel had planned to betray them, and by the time they realized the Dread Wolf’s treachery, they were sealed in their respective realms, never again to interact with the mortal world. It is a fable, to be sure, but those elves who travel the Beyond claim that Fen’Harel still roams the world of dreams, keeping watch over the gods lest they escape their prisons.

Whatever the case, Arlathan had fallen to the very humans our people had once considered mere pests. It is said that the Tevinter magisters used their great destructive power to force the very ground to swallow Arlathan whole, destroying eons of collected knowledge, culture, and art. The whole of elven lore left only to memory.”

—from _The Fall of Arlathan_ , as told by Gisharel, keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish

**Líadan**

The other three people in the room looked at Malcolm expectantly, as if his comment from earlier had summoned the knock. He rolled his eyes and went to the door. Varel stood patiently on the other side. Malcolm slightly narrowed his eyes at the seneschal. “Tell me you aren’t here to tell us that there’s a qunari invasion fleet off the coast.”

“I was—what? Qunari? Should we be on the lookout for them, too?” Varel asked.

“No, you shouldn’t,” Riordan said from behind his desk, motioning for Varel to come into the room. “Pay no attention to what Malcolm says.” He frowned. “Unless, of course, you _are_ bringing news of a qunari fleet.”

“I don’t even...” Varel started.

“I apologize for the conduct of my fellow Grey Wardens,” Fiona said, giving Riordan a look that told him he should be acting his age and most certainly not playing along with Malcolm or Líadan. “What brings you up here?”

Varel gave her a short bow, and then turned to Riordan again. “Commander, the lords of Amaranthine are ready to swear fealty to you and the Grey Wardens.”

“They are?” asked Riordan.

Malcolm snorted and sat down. “The Oaths of Fealty ceremony, remember? That’s why Eamon and Alistair had to go to Highever. Well, one reason, anyway. The other reason with the templars is the better one, in my opinion. I wish I could be there for that little adventure.”

“Oh, right. Yes.” Riordan nodded to Malcolm, and then looked at Varel. “What do I need to know?”

“The lords and ladies present were once Arl Rendon Howe’s vassals. Now they will be yours. Some of them bore Arl Howe no love, but others had their prospects ruined by his demise. My advice would be to tread carefully, Commander,” the seneschal answered.

“What do you think, Malcolm?” Riordan’s look was on him once again.

For a moment, Líadan wondered why Riordan would be asking Malcolm’s opinion about the coming ceremony, and then she remembered that Malcolm had been raised within the circles of the very nobility who were to be swearing their fealty to Riordan. It was something easy to forget, both with Malcolm and Alistair, that they were considered part of the Fereldan nobility. Neither one of them acted anything like what her preconceived notions of the human nobility had been. Or even humans in general, for that matter. _Eamon_ , though, he was another story. Most of the time, she didn’t mind him. Today, especially this morning, not so much.

Malcolm shrugged. “I don’t know many of them very well. Fergus would, but I stayed back at Highever most of the time. I don’t think I’d be able to tell you offhand who sided with Howe and who didn’t. Nathaniel wouldn’t, either, because he was in the Free Marches for so long. Just be your usual self, I suppose, and you should be fine. I probably should make myself fairly scarce during the ceremony, by the way.”

“Which we should be starting as soon as possible, Commander,” said Varel.

Riordan stood up. “Of course. We’re right behind you.” The seneschal turned and started off toward the main hall, the commander behind him. After Fiona gave Líadan one of her inscrutable looks, she followed the two men out the door.

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Malcolm stood up from the bench, sighed, and started for the door. Líadan watched him for a moment, trying to decide if she’d go down and watch the ceremony, too. She was curious about it, as her people never had spectacles quite like what the humans did. Alistair’s coronation had definitely been ostentatious and her friend had been fantastically mortified. She could only hope for the same sort of mortification to befall Riordan. After the morning she’d had, she knew she needed the amusement. It was either that or find some poor sod of a soldier to spar with in the yard outside. Or ride out after Eamon and Alistair and give the arl what-for. That actually sounded like a half-decent plan. Forget the ceremony, she could ride out and back before anyone knew it. Maybe while she was yelling at him, she could figure out what they were arguing about in the first place. At least the last time she and Eamon had argued, there had been a reason, however strange it was. She’d come out of Malcolm’s room after visiting him, just after Riordan, Alistair, and Eamon had arrived from Denerim. Eamon had watched her emerge from the room, studied her face for a moment, and then spoken to her sternly about being in Malcolm’s room when she had no business being there. She’d immediately taken offense, informing him that she was a mage, in case he’d forgotten. His reply had been along the lines of her not being a healing mage and just using that as an excuse. She’d demanded to know what she would be excusing herself for, but before Eamon could answer, Fiona had rounded the corner and brought an early end to the argument.

And then there’d been that business out at the practice yard, with all the glaring. And whatever Eamon had said to Malcolm while she was sparring—pretending that her sparring partner had been the arl—had darkened the previously bright look on Malcolm’s face. She suspected it had something to do with her, but aside from supposition, no one could have any idea what was going on. After all, she and Malcolm didn’t even know.

What she _did_ know was that she wasn’t going to be told to stay out of anything or spoken to like Eamon had spoken to her. It was strange, because during the Blight, Eamon had acted like he didn’t care one way or another that she was Dalish. It had seemed he’d only thought of her as a Grey Warden and that was the only category he put her in. Either she’d been wrong about him before or something had changed to make him place her in a different category. A category that apparently needed to be yelled at, no less. She glared at the window in the general direction of the North Road and Highever. 

“I’m sorry Eamon yelled at you,” Malcolm said.

She waved him off, somehow not surprised that he hadn’t left, after all. “You already apologized. Besides, it isn’t your fault that he’s a grumpy old man.” 

He smiled a bit as he leaned against the doorframe. “I’ll have to remember that one.”

After seeing him unconscious for a week, and then all the doom and gloom of the past day, even that small smile was like catching a glimpse of the sun after a summer storm. He’d been smiling a lot more recently, and it had been a nice change since the Blight. But watching Eamon yell at him and Malcolm just sit there and not say a word in his own defense had reminded her of the time during the Blight when Eamon had often bossed the brothers around. “When he was shouting at you, why didn’t you stop him?” she suddenly asked.

Oddly, the smile widened instead of disappearing at the question. “I was going to, actually. I’m a bit tired of him shouting at me all the time. But you got to him before I did, and then you two started in on another argument entirely. One that Alistair and I couldn’t figure out the topic for, either. That was... really strange, in case you were wondering.”

“I bet it was.” While she knew he was trying to get additional information from him, she had no desire to tell him about the first argument she’d had with Eamon. Because if Malcolm knew, he’d confront Eamon. And if Eamon was reacting to what she suspected he was reacting to, it would only make things worse, not better. Besides that, if anything was going on, they needed to figure it out between themselves first before they dealt with Eamon. Líadan had seen what Eamon had put Malcolm through over Morrigan, and she didn’t want him to have to go through that again.

“You’re...” Malcolm started, and then gave up on whatever insult he’d had in mind. “You’re you, apparently. Come on, let’s go see Riordan get all squirmy and uncomfortable while a bunch of banns swear fealty to him. He’ll hate the entire thing and it will be fantastic. You don’t want to miss out on that.”

“How long will it take?” she asked, following him out the door.

“Not sure. The actual ceremony itself doesn’t take that long, provided that everyone actually swears the oaths they’re supposed to. But then afterward there’s all sorts of chatting and mingling that has to be done. That’s the worst part. At least, it was when I was a kid. I had to dress up, which meant no dirt anywhere, I had to be polite, even to people like Rendon Howe, and I was stuck there until the teyrn blessedly put an end to it.” He tilted his head to the side, as if a memory had struck him. “Or I did something so awful that I got sent to my room. Yes, that was how those functions usually ended for me.”

“You must’ve been a willful child.” Most likely, his natural charm had gotten him out of the tightest scrapes, like it must have for Alistair as well. Each brother had an inherent likability to them, even when you wanted to hate them. Most of the time, try as you want, you just _couldn’t_. Fiona had explained this to Líadan about Maric, and she could definitely see that Maric’s sons were both the same way. And, unfortunately, to Líadan, Malcolm even more so. More than he should be, she knew.

“I can’t imagine you were any different,” Malcolm said. “You’re as bad as I am now. Anyway, the answer your _real_ question is, no, there won’t be time to catch up to Arl Eamon and yell at him after the ceremony.”

She stopped suddenly in mid-stride and gaped up at him. “How did you know?”

He grinned. “Because I wanted to do the same thing. You totally stole my moment back there. I was about to unleash one of the best rants I’ve ever had.”

Líadan rolled her eyes and continued walking toward the main hall. “You were not.”

It took him only a couple steps to catch up with her using his long legs. “You don’t know that. I could have. But you interrupted. Now we’ll never know how awesomely I could’ve yelled. Seriously, it could’ve been the best tirade of the decade.” He smirked at his close rhyme. “And I’ll have you know, I was a shockingly adorable child.”

“I’m sure.”

“Seriously, cutest child _ever_.”

“You must have been, because that’s the only way you could’ve survived through your childhood with the way you behave.” They were getting close to the side entrance to the main hall now, the guards outside the doors glancing in their direction as they approached.

“Oh, ouch. Right to the quick, that.” Then they were at the doors and Malcolm spoke quietly with the guards. 

Líadan wondered what would happen if they ever had one of their conversations while not on their way to a finite destination. Most likely, they would end up in places neither one of them were willing to openly acknowledge to each other. Better then, that they always verbally sparred while an interruption was close at hand. The moment she’d stolen while he was unconscious had been too much of a risk, she knew that now. What if she’d been wrong and he was fluent in Elvish? Though, were that true, she was certain he’d have confronted her already. If he was certain of something, he wasn’t one to just let it fester. But the chance had been there, nonetheless. And if he’d heard her and remembered it and managed to find a translation of what she’d said... but he hadn’t. Or didn’t, most likely. Hopefully, he assumed it was a dream and that would be that. She’d been panicked when she’d said it and should’ve been able to keep it to herself. That Fiona had overheard was bad enough, even though Fiona thankfully hadn’t heard the words themselves.

And what in the name of the Creators had possessed her to say what she did? That she had freaked out because he’d nearly died and she hadn’t said a word to him? That her mind had been in turmoil and not at all at peace because she was slow to see love? She’d _said_ that and still couldn’t believe to admitting to feeling that particularly dangerous emotion in relation to him. Stupidly and idiotically declared him, a _human_ and her _best friend_ to be her love. Of course, she’d promptly told him she had to go and bolted from the room. The more distance she put between that moment of weakness and panic, the more she could pretend she hadn’t said anything at all. That it had just been some sort of strange dream.

It hadn’t helped later, though, when Fiona had asked her point-blank how she felt about her son. _That_ had been excruciatingly awkward. And even more difficult to answer, though in the end she’d answered truthfully, hoping that Malcolm was fully unconscious when she said it. He must’ve been, because he’d yet to say anything. But, at least he was awake now, and well. They could go back to whatever strange, oft-times awkward relationship that they had. The one that should give Eamon nothing to fear, even though the arl seemed fairly convinced there was something else there. 

Talk over with the guards, Malcolm touched her arm lightly. “We can go in. If we’re quiet, no one should notice us.”

She gave him a dubious look, as Malcolm wasn’t the kind of person that went unnoticed, no matter how much he liked to think otherwise. But she shrugged and went with him, the two of them slipping silently through the barely-opened doors. For once, Malcolm wasn’t noticed, but only because all of the attention was toward the dais at the front of the room, where a human man with a cap of white hair was bowing to Riordan and saying, “I, Lord Eddelbrek, will be faithful to the arl in matters of life, limb, and earthly honor. Never will I bear arms against him or his heirs. So I say in the sight of the Maker.”

“Seriously?” Malcolm whispered. “They’re only to Lord Eddelbrek?”

“Which side was he on?” she asked, moving closer to him so that they wouldn’t be overheard. “I mean, do you know that man?”

He shrugged. “A bit. Mostly _of_ him. I do know that he wasn’t a fan of Arl Howe, so I suppose he was on our side. Is on our side, or however it works.” His deep blue eyes swept across the crowd, searching the faces. “One person I know who hates us, Bann Esmerelle of Amaranthine City, is here. She’s the older woman over there with the dark hair and really severe-looking bangs. Also a nasty glint to her eye. She was a favorite of Howe’s, unfortunately.”

“But, she swore fealty to Riordan, right?” Líadan wasn’t quite sure how all of this worked. 

“Yes, but she probably didn’t mean it, even if she swore it. That’s part of the problem with this arling. Usually, a teyrn can give away an arling without any trouble, because banns and lords don’t swear themselves to arls, they swear themselves to the teyrns. In this case, the teyrn would be my brother Fergus. But historically, the arling of Amaranthine has always been a bit different, hence having banns and lords swear to the arl. It really should just be a teyrnir, but whatever, can’t change that...” Malcolm trailed off and looked over at Líadan. “I lost you, didn’t I?”

She didn’t want to look stupid, yet she really had no idea how Fereldan politics worked. Then again, this was Malcolm talking to her. It wasn’t like she hadn’t had to explain Dalish things to him. “Yes,” she admitted. 

“I’ll give you the quick version—mind you, this was years of being stuck in schooling for me, by the way, so you’re getting off lucky. Anyway, Ferelden is different from other countries in Thedas. Everywhere else, the nobility considers themselves to be in the positions they are because of some Maker-given blessing. They believe they have the right to be there. It isn’t like that in Ferelden. Instead, it starts at the bottom. There’s freeholders, those are your regular farmers, the people who feed us in the end, really. They swear oaths of loyalty to banns. Basically, what the oaths mean is that they’ll fight for them if there’s a need for it. Moving upward, banns swear themselves to teyrns. Ferelden used to have a bunch of different teyrnirs, but now it’s down to two—Highever, which is the one Fergus holds, and Gwaren, which is the one Anora holds. Arlings are different. They’re supposed to be strategic fortresses and arls are appointed by teyrns to hold them. Redcliffe is one, for example, as the castle is a very important strategic point. And since the arls were directly appointed, there wasn’t any worry about banns having to switch allegiances if the arl were to change. But, Amaranthine is an exception and these banns and lords here are having to swear oaths of fealty to someone they didn’t choose, because they’re in the domain of Amaranthine. Honestly, were I them, I wouldn’t like it much, either.”

“That... mostly makes sense,” she said after nodding. “So is that how the king is appointed, too? Is that why at the Landsmeet you and Alistair needed to get the votes from all the banns and arls and such?”

“Pretty much.”

She pursed her lips. “What’s the deal with Eamon and the Theirin bloodline, then? If the king is elected, shouldn’t it not make a difference what his ancestry is?”

“In theory. However, the problem with the Fereldan throne is that Ferelden wasn’t even a country until the first Theirin king, Calenhad, united all the warring teyrnirs into a single nation. Since Calenhad did that, the ruling king or queen has always been a Theirin. Well, except when the Orlesians took over. But even after that, it was a Theirin who resumed the throne after they were thrown out.”

“Wasn’t that man your father?”

“Um... yes.” A slight panic passed through his eyes he looked frantically around them. “Careful, someone will hear and figure it out.”

She smirked a bit. “They’ll figure out who you are soon enough. You _look_ like him and so does Alistair, I’m told. And I’ve seen the recognition in the eyes of the older people when they see you, too. You know, the ones who probably met Maric.” He scowled at her and she smirked again. “So, Alistair got put on the throne because Fereldans really think only a Theirin can keep the country from fracturing into teyrnirs again?”

Malcolm shrugged. “I suppose. You know, King Maric died five years before the Blight started. He’d had a legitimate son, Cailan, who was nearly twenty-five at the time. Anyway, Cailan was naturally put forth to the Landsmeet to be the next king. The thing was, he nearly didn’t become king. Instead, the bannorn were considering putting my foster father, Bryce Cousland, on the throne. But he turned it down, rather emphatically, and supported Cailan instead. I guess what I’m saying is that it doesn’t necessarily _have_ to be a Theirin. Just someone the bannorn believes can lead the country.”

“So it’s partly inherited and partly elected.” Líadan also found it interesting that Malcolm could’ve ended up in line for the throne had the vote gone Teyrn Cousland’s way. Knowing what she did of Fergus, and how Malcolm said Fergus was much like Bryce Cousland, she felt both of them could’ve been good kings. Not that Alistair wasn’t turning out to be a good sovereign, but had there been a different king for the Battle of Ostagar, things truly would be vastly changed in the here and now. That gave her pause. More likely, she wouldn’t be here. Malcolm and Alistair wouldn’t have been traveling the Brecilian Passage and never would’ve found her. Most likely, she would be dead. And at one point in her life since contracting the taint and becoming a Grey Warden, she would’ve preferred death. But that had changed, and though she had lost much, including the close ties to her clan, she found she was grateful to be alive.

“Something like that. I wish Eamon believed a bit more strongly in the system, though, and left Alistair and me alone.” Then Malcolm grimaced, as if he’d said something he wasn’t supposed to.

She pounced on it, wanting more information about Eamon’s little vendetta. “What do you mean?”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as his ears started to turn red. “Well, Alistair told me that Eamon’s been getting on to him about marrying and having an heir and that it’s apparently really, really important that he do so.”

And Líadan realized what had made Eamon so angry with her—he’d come to view her as a threat to the continuation of the Theirin bloodline. She barely resisted rolling her eyes. Because, obviously, the only thing that could keep Ferelden together was a Theirin, even though their entire governmental system could handle having a sovereign of a different bloodline, and nearly had once already. No wonder Eamon had been so persistent with Malcolm about Morrigan, too. But it didn’t matter what Eamon thought or felt, it mattered what she felt and what Malcolm felt. Of course, neither of them were willing to acknowledge it, much less talk about it, so Eamon had less to worry about than he realized. Not that she’d tell him as much. He could stew forever for all she cared. “And I suppose he’s taken the same tack with you?”

Malcolm glanced warily in her direction, and then went back to watching the ceremony. “Not yet. But Alistair insists that I’m next.” He frowned, the blush that had started before continuing to color his cheeks. “Can we... not talk about this? Ever again, preferably?”

She grinned at him. “But you’re so endearing when you’re awkward.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what every man wants to hear. That they’re _endearing_. My day has been made! May I be content in knowing that I am endearing, and often so.”

Her acerbic reply was interrupted by Varel announcing that the ceremony was complete, and the man Malcolm had called Lord Eddelbrek saying, “Long live the Warden Commander!”

“Wow,” Líadan said, pitched so that only Malcolm could hear, “if only he knew.” People had started to mill about, some clumping into groups and launching into political discussions, others wandering around the room. She noticed that the older woman Malcolm had pointed out earlier, Esmerelle, had started in their direction. Líadan nudged Malcolm and inclined her head slightly towards the bann. “Don’t look now, but there’s someone headed this way. Something tells me that she probably wants to talk to you, and not me.”

Malcolm’s eyes widened slightly. “Why would she want to talk to me? Riordan is the one who’s technically the arl here. Just because I’m the king’s brother doesn’t mean I have any power here, and if I did, that I would care to _use_ it.” He scowled, and then brightened just as quickly. “Here. I know what will get her to stay away.” He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face him. Then he leaned in closer, his mouth spreading into a mischievous grin. “You do your scary Dalish elf thing, and she’ll run the other way.”

Líadan narrowed her eyes at him in a glare. “Scary Dalish elf thing?” she repeated. 

“Just like that!” he said, much more gleefully than he should have dared, giving her shoulders an affectionate squeeze before letting go. She would make him pay for this later, somehow. There would be revenge. 

What made it worse was that it didn’t work as Malcolm had planned. Esmerelle ignored Líadan and strode right up to Malcolm. Oh, one of _those_ humans, Líadan noted. If only these people knew that their king and the king’s brother were both half-elf. Of course, if they knew, it would mean that Alistair and Malcolm wouldn’t be king and prince, but still. Humans like Esmerelle treated elves, Dalish or city, as if they were nonentities, while at the same time they unwittingly kowtowed to two young men who had elven blood. Not that Malcolm or Alistair wanted their positions and wouldn’t happily give them up. But sometimes, Líadan just wanted people like Esmerelle to understand that elves weren’t _nothing_. Or just slaves or servants, for that matter. When Esmerelle turned her back on Líadan, the elf made a face and a rude gesture. Malcolm, admirably, did not laugh out loud, but she saw the sides of his mouth twitch and declared victory nonetheless. Then Malcolm caught her eyes and she noticed the pleading look in his. _Save me_ , he was asking. Well, if he was going call something she did the ‘scary Dalish elf thing,’ he could get out of this jam all by his lonesome. She gave him her most brilliant grin, and with a little wave, left him to his astonishingly boring conversation with the bann. When she walked away, Gunnar followed her, earning a mock-hurt glare from his master. 

Líadan drifted through the room, mostly unnoticed despite the mabari, a task more easily accomplished by an elf alone than accompanied by a tall human who resembled the king. Mhairi was standing with Nathaniel and a few guests over in one corner, while Riordan and Fiona spoke with Varel and someone who looked like Lord Eddelbrek near the middle of the room. Sigrun was once again fending off Oghren’s advances, while Anders chatted up another guest. From the expression on Anders’ face, Líadan could tell that it was a rather unsuccessful chat. Gunnar pushed up against her. She looked down and he chuffed in the direction of Anders. “You want to help him?” she asked the dog. A rather subdued bark informed her that Gunnar indeed wanted to help the mage. She shrugged. “I think it’s a lost cause, but go for it if you want.”

The dog happily trotted over to the mage and the woman he spoke with, running a tight circle around the woman and opening a new avenue of conversation for Anders. Líadan wondered if the dog had been taught that sort of thing or if he just did it on his own. After a few minutes, the woman still walked away and Anders frowned after her. Gunnar offered a lick to his hand as an apology. Chuckling, Líadan walked over to join them. When she was close enough for her to hear, Anders attempted a small grin and said, “Have I ever told you that I find tattoos on women incredibly attractive?”

Líadan raised a brow. “Haven’t we already been through this? Do I really need to shoot you down again? Or do you find constant rejection to be fun?”

“I think it’s just habit at this point, honestly.” He inclined his head toward Oghren and Sigrun. “Just think, it could be Oghren hitting on you. That should make you grateful that it’s me and not Ser Kill-The-Ladies-With-My-Breath over there.”

“He _has_ hit on me before. I was in the same war party as him during the Blight, remember?”

“Oh, yes, that’s right. With that tall, handsome prince with whom I just can’t compete, being a mage and not at all princely. I’d forgotten. Silly me.”

She rolled her eyes and let out a frustrated sigh. “If you’re going to go on about that again, let’s just go back to you hitting on me. I’d prefer that to the... other thing.”

“What, you mean _talking_? Admitting to a feeling? A tiny, little, practically insurmountable thing like that?” Anders finally noted the dangerous glint in the elf’s eyes and dropped his line of inquiry. “Okay, okay. One question, though. Why’d you ditch him over there? He looks very unhappy talking to that horrid-looking noblewoman. How could you do that? Seriously, doing mean things to him or the king is a lot like kicking a puppy. They look all sad and you just feel so awful.” Gunnar barked next to Anders and the mage gave him a scratch behind the ears. “See? The dog knows.”

Líadan muttered something about what Malcolm had asked her to do when Esmerelle had headed her way.

“What? I haven’t got your superior elven hearing. What’d you say?”

She crossed her arms and told Anders about the ‘scary Dalish elf thing.’

Anders’ face started turning a bright red as he tried his best to hold back laughter. After a few minutes, he regained most of his composure, and said, “You, um, can look pretty scary if you want to, you know. While you’re really angry. Like right now, actually. I’m not sure if it’s the tattoos—which are normally beautiful!—or what, but yeah. Scary. I’m actually surprised that the bann didn’t turn around and walk in another direction after seeing you standing next to him, all tattooed and annoyed. Especially the annoyed.”

Unwilling to let them have any more ammunition about her being a scary Dalish elf, she changed the subject. “Who was that woman you were speaking to before?”

“Speaking _with_. We were having an actual conversation and not whatever it is you’re assuming I was doing.” He gave the dog sitting beside him a good pat on the head. “Even though Gunnar here did his best to help me in other endeavors.” Anders sighed. “No, it was none of that. Ser Tamra—that’s right, a knight was talking to me—was telling me she had something important to speak to Malcolm about. She said it had to do with Riordan, but that she felt Malcolm would be better able to understand and do something about it. I tried my best to get her to say more, but even the charms of the mabari here couldn’t break her.”

Gunnar whined.

“Yes, I know, a sad day and not a testament to your true skills, Ser Dog,” said Anders, who then sighed wistfully. “You know, having Gunnar around reminds me of the one thing I miss about the Tower. My cat. It wasn’t mine, not exactly. It was a mouser that hung around the Tower, a vicious little tabby. There were days when that stupid cat was the only person I saw. Except for it not being a person. Still. I liked him. Poor Mr. Wiggums.” 

After the mention of the Tower, Líadan almost had to physically shake herself from the memory of her parents departing to stop the templars from coming for her. From Anders’ stories of the Circle Tower the humans kept their mages locked up in, it sounded a horrific place. Had her parents not killed those templars, she could’ve been locked up there, too. “Wait, why ‘poor Mr. Wiggums,’ Anders?”

A slight scowl formed on the mage’s face. “He became possessed by a rage demon—but he _did_ take out three templars. I was never more proud.” He smiled and raised his hand, pretending to hold a goblet. “A toast to Mr. Wiggums, then. May he forever eat mice in the Fade.”

She gave him an odd look, and then glanced over toward where Malcolm was now mired in conversation with both Bann Esmerelle and Lord Eddelbrek. At how desperate Malcolm seemed to be poked in the eye over remaining in the boring conversation, Líadan decided he’d probably paid enough to make up for his earlier comment. “Maybe we should let Malcolm know about Ser Tamra.”

“He does look rather desperate, doesn’t he? I bet a creepy Circle mage and a scary Dalish elf will shoo those pesky nobles away.” When Líadan glared at him, he shrugged, entirely unaffected. “You have to admit, you _can_ be intimidating when you want to. And you use that to your advantage. I’ve seen you do it. You’re trying to do it right now, in fact. The thing is, it sort of stops working on your friends, because they only think you’re being cute, even when you’re angry. It’s the way the tattoos scrunch up together on your face.”

“Are you hitting on me again?” She tried to work up a proper outrage, but found she couldn’t, as it would probably only serve to prove her fellow Warden’s point.

“I’m not! I’m only being honest. Now, as there’s no similarly stricken damsels, let’s go rescue our prince in distress.” Anders moved across the room, robes swishing around his legs, Líadan following. They picked up Ser Tamra along the way. 

When Malcolm caught sight of them, his eyes lit up in relief. “If you would excuse me,” he immediately said to each of the nobles, “I believe I have some Grey Warden business to attend to. I advise you to present your concerns to the Warden Commander, as he is the person appointed as the arl. I am merely his second.” He gave a slight bow. “Now, pardon me, sers.”

Thus dismissed, the two nobles scurried away, tossing out quick “my lords” to Malcolm, but heading straight in Riordan’s direction. Líadan felt a bit bad for the commander, as she knew he’d rather stick to only Grey Warden matters and not matters of court. 

“Thank you, both of you,” Malcolm said once the nobles were out of earshot. Then he indicated Ser Tamra. “And who is this?”

“This is Ser Tamra,” Anders said. “She says she has something of great import to tell you.”

Malcolm started offering his hand for a greeting, but Ser Tamra dropped into a low bow instead. Eyes wide, almost in horror, Malcolm urged her back to standing. “No need for that. I’m a Grey Warden, not the king. What is it you have to tell me?”

“I’ve just... we’ve all heard so much about you, my lord. So may good things, unbelievable things. I was just overwhelmed. But I must tell you, some of the nobles do not like the idea of the Grey Wardens holding the arling, especially with the Warden Commander being an Orlesian. They seek to end his dominion over them.”

Malcolm’s expression grew dark. “Are you certain? That’s a serious accusation.” The unease ghosting through his eyes revealed much more than he said out loud. Líadan remembered that Malcolm’s family had died because of the previous arl’s ambitions. And now ambitious nobles threatened once more.

Ser Tamra wrung her hands together. “I wish I was less certain, ser. I’ve had... occasion to intercept some of their missives. They are cryptic things. Any individual message is unintelligible. But together they form a pattern. They mean to end the Warden Commander and the Grey Wardens before they can begin. A deadly coalition.”

“That is incredibly stupid and short-sighted of them,” Líadan said, wanting names and wanting to take action right away. The nobles were here, after all, and could be taken care of immediately, the problem over and done with before it started. The Wardens were her clan now and she wouldn’t let them be hurt by these stupid, scrabbling nobles.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Malcolm said, his body held stiff in want to pace and having not the space to do so. His angry gaze turned to Tamra. “I want the missives.”

“I don’t have them.” That brought the start of an objection from Malcolm, but the knight’s explanation tumbled from her mouth before he could speak. “But I can retrieve them! That is, given a few days. I would have brought them tonight, but... I didn’t know if warning you would be wise. I’ve too much to lose and precious little to gain.” She bowed again, shallow this time. “Farewell, my lord. We will meet again soon.” Then before anyone could catch her, Tamra strode out of the room. 

Malcolm watched her depart, jaw flexing.

“What do you think?” Anders asked him.

“It sounds practically _Orlesian_ ,” he said. “We can’t do anything without proof, or it will look bad for the Wardens.” He spun in a small circle, hands opening and closing in tight fists. “And at the same time, I have no doubt that this conspiracy could be true. I need to speak with Riordan. Excuse me.” Malcolm turned sharply and headed right for the Warden Commander, the intensity of frustration emanating from him pushing away any of the crowd who stood in his way. He even bumped into Fiona as she walked towards the clump of them and didn’t acknowledge that he’d done it, so determined was he to reach Riordan.

Líadan gave the other elf an apologetic shrug. “Bad news,” she said once Fiona got close.

Anders raised his brow in surprised at Malcolm’s sudden, emotional departure. “What was that about? I didn’t think he’d be pleased or anything, but that reaction was more than I expected.”

“Before the Blight, his entire foster family, aside from the foster brother who’d been away from the castle at the time, was killed in a plot much like this one. Except it was carried out by only one arl and his men,” Líadan said, her hand absently rubbing the soft fur behind Gunnar’s ears. “No one saw it coming. Apparently it was a massacre. He, Gunnar, and the former Warden Commander were the only ones to make it out alive that night.”

“Hearing things like that make me realize that, sometimes, being stuck in that Tower maybe wasn’t so bad after all,” Anders said.

Fiona’s warm eyes changed from concerned to somber. “Yes, there are worse things than living in the Tower.”

Líadan wondered if any Warden had a story that didn’t begin or end in tragedy.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

“You will hear tales of the woman Andraste. The shemlen name her prophet, bride of the Maker. But we knew her as a war leader, one who, like us, had been a slave and dreamed of liberation. We joined her rebellion against the Imperium, and our heroes died beside her, unmourned, in Tevinter bonfires. But we stayed with our so-called allies until the war ended. Our reward: A land in southern Orlais called the Dales. So we began the Long Walk to our new home.

Halamshiral, ‘the end of the journey,’ was our capital, built out of the reach of the humans. We could once again forget the incessant passage of time. Our people began the slow process of recovering culture and traditions we had lost to slavery.

But it was not to last. The Chantry first sent missionaries into the Dales, and then, when those were thrown out, templars. We were driven from Halamshiral, scattered. Some took refuge in the cities of the shemlen, living in squalor, tolerated only a little better than vermin.

We took a different path. We took to the wilderness, never stopping for long enough to draw notice of our shemlen neighbors. In our self-imposed exile, we kept what remained of elven knowledge and culture alive.”

— _The End of the Long Walk_ , as told by Gisharel, keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish

“Many forget that when Holy Andraste called out to the oppressed peoples to rise up, it was the elves who answered her first. The humblest slaves of the Imperium became her vanguard, and when victory came, they were rewarded accordingly: They were given a land in what is now the south of Orlais, called the Dales.

A great exodus of elves undertook the journey to their new home, crossing ocean, desert, and mountain. Their city, the first elven city since the fabled Arlathan, was called Halamshiral. A new era had begun for the elves.

But the old era wasn’t through with them. In their forest city, the elves turn again to worship their silent, ancient gods. They became increasingly isolationist, posting Emerald Knights who guarded their borders with jealousy, rebuking all efforts at trade or civilized discourse. Dark rumors spread in the lands that bordered the Dales, whispers of humans captured and sacrificed to elven gods.

And then came an attack by the elves on the defenseless village of Red Crossing. The Chantry replied with an Exalted March of the Dales, and the era of the elven kingdom came to an end. Halamshiral was utterly destroyed, the elves driven out, scattered, left to survive on goodwill alone.”

—from _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ , by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

**Malcolm**

“So Riordan is just going to cover his ears and pretend there isn’t a conspiracy brewing against him?” Anders asked as they rode south toward the Wending Wood. 

They’d left early that morning, Riordan telling them that no matter what other things were going on, the situation in the Wending Wood needed to be dealt with before they could proceed with attending to anything else. Malcolm hadn’t liked the idea of taking most of the Wardens out of the Vigil when there was a possibly conspiracy on the commander’s life, but Riordan was right. The fastest route of travel between Denerim and the northern coast needed to be reopened. And since people claimed the attacks were from darkspawn, it meant that the Wardens had to investigate, even though their own numbers were so few. Under grumbling protest, Malcolm had gone, taking Anders, Oghren, Líadan, and Nathaniel with him, leaving Sigrun, Mhairi, and Fiona back at the Vigil with Riordan. He hoped it would be enough if the conspirators made a move.

Then again, he could just be overly paranoid along with well-meaning Ser Tamra, and have nothing to worry about at all. Until Tamra produced those missives, they couldn’t act. 

Before he answered Anders’ question, Malcolm shifted in his saddle and glanced back. He needed to make sure the three Vigil soldiers who had accompanied the small group of Wardens rode far enough behind to allow for privacy. “It seems so. He spent most of his life in Orlais, so I guess he knows how these sort of things work. Personally, I’ve found that they end up in _death_ , and not for the conspiring party. But that’s just me. He’s the commander, anyway. We’ll just have to do our best to not let him be killed.”

“At least until he goes to the Deep Roads,” Líadan said from next to him, bringing a scowl to her face.

Malcolm mirrored the elf’s scowl as his gaze moved to her. “You had to remind us.”

She dropped the reins for a moment and lifted her hands in apology. “It isn’t like I want him to die. I’m just saying that we’re only delaying the inevitable. Maybe part of him even prefers to die this way. I mean, it’s probably a far sight better than getting overwhelmed by a horde of darkspawn in the Deep Roads. He already got cheated out of death by archdemon. Why not try death by a conspiracy everyone says seems remarkably Orlesian?” Picking up the reins again, she looked at Malcolm curiously. “Why is it that you keep saying that, anyway?”

He sighed and faced forward. “It has to do with how Orlesian politics work. They don’t really fight with each other out in the open. They use bards—which are almost like assassins—and sow rumors and dissent and sometimes assassinate. Ferelden is usually much more open about conflict.” A brief chuckle escaped from his lips. “Once, two banns declared war on each other over what one named their dog.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, he isn’t,” Nathaniel said, his hunter’s eyes still scanning the forest closing in around them as they advanced along the Pilgrim’s Path. “I learned the same story from my tutors.”

Anders looked back and forth between the two men. “So were you two friends as children?” When neither of them replied immediately, he said, “Oh, awkward topic, is it?”

“You excel at finding those, Anders,” said Líadan.

Thinking of how the elf had forced him and his natural mother to acknowledge their relationship to each other, Malcolm said, “You aren’t much better.” Líadan shrugged at the comment, not bothered in the least. Restraining himself from rolling his eyes, Malcolm turned to Anders. “We knew each other, yes.”

“But not friends?”

“I’m closer in age to his brother Fergus,” Nathaniel said in a fine non-answer. “And I didn’t spend a lot of time visiting Highever, though my sister Delilah did. She was not a fan of Malcolm.” His tone carried not the expected derision, but a surprising amount of amusement. Then Nathaniel relayed the story of when Malcolm had gotten mud on Delilah’s new dress, which had resulted in a lengthy chase throughout Highever Castle’s keep. A chase that ended up with a few broken vases, innumerable muddy, child-sized footprints, and a young boy getting a scolding. By the time he finished the story, Nathaniel was openly laughing. “I hated that dress.”

“So did I,” said Malcolm. He supposed had they been given a proper chance, he and Nathaniel could’ve been friends. “And while the teyrn scolded me in front of your father, once he left, he couldn’t stop laughing.”

“Somehow I’m not surprised. Teyrn Cousland never struck me as a particularly harsh man.” A frown twisted at Nathaniel’s mouth and he fell silent. But they all knew that Nathaniel’s next words would’ve referred to his own father, and how unlike Bryce Cousland he had been.

Even Anders left the subject alone.

The group continued riding in silence, each of them caught up in their own thoughts. Malcolm puzzled over the situation the two nobles had presented to him the day before, right before Líadan and Anders had graciously interrupted with the knight. They wanted soldiers, of course, soldiers that the Vigil didn’t have, not before, and certainly not after the latest darkspawn attack. Eddelbrek wanted guards for the farms, most of which he controlled, while Esmerelle claimed that Amaranthine City needed the soldiers. Malcolm had been overly annoyed that they had brought it to him instead of Riordan, assuming that the prince would be the one making the decisions. He’d informed them that it was Riordan they needed to look to, but they’d brushed off the admonition. Later, after the nobles had brought the matter to Riordan’s attention, the Warden Commander had asked his opinion along with Seneschal Varel’s. All of them agreed that people needed to be fed, and Amaranthine already its own walls and guards, while the farms did not. Malcolm also intended to speak with Alistair about the farms, as part of the central bannorn had been Blighted, heightening the need for secure farmland in the north. Under normal circumstances, farming in the north wasn’t terribly important, as most of the food came from the central part of the country. The Blight had changed that, and the Crown needed to keep itself apprised of the situation. 

Malcolm also wanted to change the situation with the Arling of Amaranthine at the next Landsmeet, if it could be done. The banns and lords who’d pledged themselves to the arl should revert back to swearing to the teyrn. Usually it was the teyrn who was geographically the closest, who would be Fergus, but if they wanted, the lords could pledge themselves to the Teyrna of Gwaren, who was Anora. It didn’t matter much which teyrn they chose, Malcolm felt they just needed to have the arling revert back to being a fortress holding. It made much more sense for the Wardens to hold a strategic fortress anyway. Plus, it meant that no one had to swear allegiance to someone appointed over them and could lead to much less resentment. And conspiracies to kill the current arl, also a bonus. Of course, that meant a long chat with Eamon, something he didn’t look forward to, because Eamon obviously had another sort of long chat in mind. 

Smelling smoke on the air, Malcolm slowed his horse to a stop. “Something’s burning.”

“A mile or so ahead, I believe,” said Nathaniel.

Malcolm dismounted, motioning to the three soldiers they’d brought with them to take the reins. “We’ll walk from here. I don’t want to risk the horses. You three, stay with them.” He glanced at Gunnar. “And you know what to do.” The dog barked and ran in a small circle. Then with a sigh, he started trudging toward whatever it was that burned a mile ahead of them. The others formed up around him, while Nathaniel darted ahead, scouting what he could. 

After a few minutes, Oghren tugged at his beard as he looked thoughtfully around them. Then he clapped his thigh and exclaimed, “Shave my back and call me an elf! We’ve been here before!”

Líadan slid a glare over at the dwarf, yet said nothing. A warning, Malcolm knew, but he doubted Oghren would heed it. Or if he’d even noticed it in the first place.

“This is near where the army camped before the Battle of Denerim,” Malcolm said, fighting the sadness that grasped at his chest. “We’re at the northern edge and it was a pretty big camp, so I’m not sure if you saw this part of the Woods before.”

“A dwarf will walk a long way for a spot of needed ale,” Oghren replied. “Pretty sure I went out this far. Got some good ale, too. You surfacers aren’t half bad at making the stuff.”

Líadan looked at the dwarf disbelievingly. “That’s where you were most of the time?”

“Aye. Where’d you think I was?”

“I preferred not to think of it at all.”

“Camp followers would be my guess,” offered Anders.

“Not thinking about it,” Líadan said, somewhat loudly, and quite pointedly.

“That was _after_ the ale,” said Oghren, who then happily leered at the memory. “Such buxom beauties they were, too—”

“Creators take you, shut _up_ , dwarf!” Líadan’s tone had risen, and now her staff had found its way into her hands and shook threateningly at Oghren. 

Oghren shrugged. “Suit yourself. Lovely time, though. You missed out.”

Malcolm brought up a hand to smother the laughter he was having trouble containing. He had to admit, annoying Líadan did get kind of fun after a time. She got this delightful little wrinkle between her eyebrows, right below the convergence point of her tattoo. And if she was really wound up, her nose would start scrunching up in the most adorable way... and Malcolm realized he should _really_ stop thinking about those sorts of things when it came to Líadan. He forced himself to pay attention to the road ahead, where he could now see the burned-out remains of what must have been a merchant caravan. However, he got no sure sense of the taint. There was a vague hint of it, but he came across that over much of Ferelden where any of the darkspawn had been during the Blight. He also didn’t see any survivors, but he hastened his pace anyway. 

The rest of the group caught his urgency and picked up their speed. Arriving at the tipped and burned wagons revealed nothing more than they’d gotten from further away. Malcolm frowned and scanned the forest around them. Nathaniel materialized out of the trees near them, making Oghren jump a bit. “There’s some bandits up ahead,” he said to Malcolm. “Not really that skilled, either, but probably enough to have done that.” He nodded at the wreckage. “They didn’t see me. They’re on the lookout, but I’m not sure what for. They definitely look scared.”

“I don’t see why,” said Líadan. “It’s just a forest. And they’re the ones harassing everyone else, not the other way around. They’ve nothing to be afraid of. Besides, it’s _nice_ to be in the woods for once instead of riding along some boring highway.”

Nathaniel shrugged. “I saw what I saw.”

“What _is_ it with you and tromping through forests?” Oghren asked Líadan. Then he started skipping about near the elf in a strange dance. “Hey, look at me, I’m an elf! Trees are pretty! Tra-la-la!” 

The moment the dwarf got close to Líadan again, she smacked him soundly on the back of the head. Then she said, “You know, I’m really starting to see why your ex-wife took up with Hespith.”

Oghren immediately stopped his dance, his shoulders drooping dejectedly. “Now that’s just mean.”

“And yet, entirely deserved,” said Malcolm.

Líadan ignored the dwarf and addressed Nathaniel. “I wasn’t saying I didn’t believe you. I was just thinking out loud. I mean, I suppose those bandits could be worried about darkspawn, but I don’t sense any.” She looked at Malcolm for confirmation. “Do you?”

“No. Nothing in the immediate vicinity, anyway.” He motioned for Nathaniel to take point. “Let’s go exploring. If we want to make the bandit encounter more fun, we could make a wager on if they’ll fight or run away.”

“You’d really bet on that?” asked Anders, keeping his staff out.

Malcolm checked the straps on his shield. “Oghren might.” He hoped the bandits would run, as he didn’t quite relish killing things other than darkspawn. He also hoped that it was only the bandits that were the problem, and after they chased them off, they could return to the Vigil, which brought him one step closer to returning to Highever. But judging from how things tended to turn out during the Blight, he doubted their little trip to the woods would end quite that easily. Líadan fell into step next to him, keeping quiet, wearing a small contented smile on her face. Oghren had been right, in a way, that Líadan truly did enjoy the forest and always tended to be happiest there. It felt good to see her finding that sort of happiness, however short it might be. These forests, though, he wasn’t much a fan of. They brought too many memories of that night before the last battle, of Morrigan and memories everyone insisted on dredging up all the time, memories he’d rather were long buried and forgotten.

“Stop thinking about her,” Líadan said quietly.

“Stop reading my mind,” he replied, a little annoyed that she was always able to do that.

“Stop being so readable.”

“Stop... ” He made a frustrated sound and threw his hands in the air. “Just stop.”

A panicked, sword-wielding man, one of the bandits Nathaniel had seen earlier, Malcolm assumed, bolted down the narrow forest path in front of them. Once the man got closer, he waved his hands at the group of Wardens and shouted, “Out of my way! I need to get out of here!”

Instead of kindly moving out of the man’s way, Malcolm and Anders caught him by the arms. “First, tell me what’s going on,” Malcolm said.

The bandit struggled in the iron grip the two men had on him, but they didn’t give way. “You don’t understand! _She’s_ after me!” he shouted.

Malcolm felt distinctly reminded of the Blight, Redcliffe in particular, when they’d happened on the village being attacked by the undead. Of when it had taken forever, and way too many questions, to get the people of Redcliffe to admit to what they were being attacked by. And it hadn’t just been Redcliffe, either. He alway seemed to have to ask too many questions for people to give him real answers. “ _Who_ is after you?”

The bandit’s eyes flickered frantically back toward where he’d run. “The elf!” He waved at the trees beyond the path. “She makes the trees come alive! All we wanted was some easy money from the caravans, but we—” A tremor shook the ground as they heard a loud thump, followed by another, resembling lumbering footsteps.

“Sounds like an ogre,” Líadan said.

Malcolm’s frown deepened and he looked into the forest again, wondering if there was an even newer type of darkspawn that Wardens couldn’t sense. “Doesn’t feel like one, though.”

His moment of inattention to their captive allowed him to shake the grasp of the two Wardens off him. “Maker help me! She’s here! Gotta get away!” And the bandit was off and running again, tripping over every root underfoot.

The Wardens watched him run, and then shared a mutual shrug. The man was inconsequential in the long run, and it was obvious he wouldn’t be coming back to prey on any more caravans. Oghren glanced over at Líadan. “Trees don’t really... come alive, do they?”

“No more than you could fall into the sky,” she replied. The ground trembled again and the elf looked uneasily toward the epicenter. 

“I’d feel a little better if you could look a little more convinced of your answer,” said Anders, following her gaze.

Malcolm looked toward the same area. “We all would. Well, if the trees attack us, Oghren’s got an axe. You and Líadan could set them on fire. I suppose I could try to use my sword on it. Nathaniel can... um...”

“Hide in the shadows and cry like a small child that my nightmares have come true?” Nathaniel said. “Or I could just keep scouting and check in on you periodically to make sure you haven’t been trampled to death by a normally inanimate object once you decide to try and hack the trees down.”

“That works.” Matter settled, Malcolm started off in the direction of the tremors, unlike any normal person, like the bandit, who would run _away_ from tremors that could be a tree come to life. After a few minutes of walking, they came into a clearing where, yes indeed, a giant tree was flailing away at a few bandits valiantly trying to keep themselves alive. Malcolm chewed on the inside of his cheek, wondering why the bandits didn’t just run away, since he could tell from the lumbering gait of the trees that they weren’t the fastest suddenly-animate objects. Looked like around the same speed Shale possessed. 

“Why don’t they run off?” Líadan asked.

“Was wondering the same thing,” he answered, and then he shrugged. “No matter. We could just leave them to their fate. But if we did, the trees will kill them, and then come after us. Or we could wait here for the trees to finish killing them, and then kill the trees.” He pinched the bridge of his nose in disbelief. “What am I even _saying_? Kill trees? How are we supposed to do that? Usually there’s a Blight involved or a lot of axe and saw work. And even when you chop down trees, you aren’t killing them. Just... making them shorter, since they keep their roots. And... now they’re walking on said roots. So, we could chop them down, but the roots would keep chasing after us. Tiny, flat trees scurrying after us through the forest.” He mimed the action with his fingers, imitating his version of what the chopped trees chasing them would look like.

“You’re over-thinking it,” said the elf, a laugh threatening to burst out.

“Obviously.” He gave up the miming and looked sidelong at her. “Any ideas?”

“We could...” she trailed off and made a face.

“We could what?”

She heaved a sigh and looked skyward with a grimace. “Get to the root of the problem.”

He snorted, and then accepted the inevitable punch to the arm, even as he struggled to hold back more laughs. “And, um, what do you mean by that?”

“Well, the man who ran off said that it was the elf who was making the trees come alive. So while these trees are preoccupied with smashing bandits, we can go find this elf. I might like to meet her and learn whatever this tree-trick is. I could’ve used it a lot with Oghren.” She narrowed her eyes at Malcolm, followed by poking him in the bicep. “And _you_. Stop laughing.”

He chuckled. “I’m sorry! I can’t help it. You said something Oghren would say after spending an entire morning glaring at him for almost exactly the same thing.” When she didn’t relent in her glare, he brought his laughter under control. “Okay, okay, let’s go look for this elf.” He glanced at Nathaniel. “You watch the fight and come warn us if they’re going to attack. I take it you can track us, right?”

Nathaniel nodded. “Of course.” Then he disappeared into the trees once again. Malcolm marveled at the ability, slightly jealous. Nathaniel possessed the speed and silence Leliana and Zevran both had. The same speed and silence they’d tried to teach Malcolm and Alistair to no avail. Even Líadan could move as quietly, given her Dalish hunter training. All of them made Malcolm feel plodding and clumsy in comparison. Well, at least he had Oghren around to make him look graceful. 

“So where would we find an angry Dalish elf?” Malcolm asked Líadan. “Other than you after a run-in with Arl Eamon?”

“Ha,” she said, and then considered his question. “If she’s been openly attacking people so that they know she’s the one controlling the trees, then it has to be along the path somewhere. Probably a crossroads or a bridge or something. Most likely near a high point so she can see people coming.”

Oghren stepped over, pointing southeast. “Crossroads _and_ a cliff are that way. I remember because I walked past it on the way out of the inner camp and to where the rest of the rabble were with their fine ale.”

“And the buxom wenches?” Anders asked cheerily.

The dwarf waggled his bushy eyebrows. “On the way back.”

Líadan started walking in the direction of the crossroads, spinning her stave in practiced patterns, muttering darkly to herself. The ground shook again, and wanting to be well away from the trees, Malcolm ran to catch up, ducking a couple sweeps from Líadan’s staff. They were half-hearted swipes, he knew, because if she really wanted to hit him, she already would have. Besides, he hadn’t been the one to make the cracks this time—it was Oghren and Anders. Soon enough, the other two Wardens had pulled up behind them, Oghren breathing heavily and Anders normally. Malcolm did feel a bit badly, as Oghren wore heavy plate while the mage wore light robes, plus Anders had legs twice as long. Then again, Oghren was bound to make some sort of innuendo-laden joke eventually and the gasping for air kept him from speaking.

Soon enough, Malcolm began to feel the taint tug at this veins. The darkspawn he felt was still a decent distance from them, but there was some sort of presence that they’d have to investigate after they spoke with the elf. Líadan glanced over at him, question in her eyes about feeling the taint. He gave a slight nod. She added a determined flourish to her next spin.

“We should hit the crossroads before we run into the darkspawn,” Oghren called out from behind them. “It’ll be nice to fight something proper instead of _trees_.”

They broke from the underbrush in front of the crossroads and cliff Oghren had told them about. Malcolm looked about expectantly, wondering if the elf would just appear, or if they’d have to do something other than show up to make her attack them. He took the time to study the terrain as they waited, their ambusher apparently held up by other engagements, noting that the cliff face Tevinter carvings inset into what once must’ve been a doorway, but was now filled with stone instead of a door. Ruins everywhere, it seemed. And they were never good things, in his experience. Just in front and to the side of the cliff, a rickety wooden bridge spanned a small, gurgling stream. Picturesque, were they not avoiding trees come alive, bandits, darkspawn, and elf with an agenda. 

A rumbling sounded at the top of the cliff and drew their attention. Roots suddenly sprouted from the ground, and then dropped away to reveal a female Dalish elf, greenish energy crackling above upraised hands. She sneered down at them and asked, “Another scavenger to prey on the misfortunes of others?”

Malcolm paled, not out of fear of the elf, as angry mages didn’t much scare him any more, but because of the similarity to another entrance. Morrigan slinking out from between the trees in the Korcari Wilds, archly asking if Malcolm and the others were scavengers or intruders. He fought to escape the memory, pushing away its hold, because it shouldn’t affect him anymore. 

When none of Wardens replied, the elf spun the greenish energy into an orb between her hands. Then she said, “No, you are well armed.” She nodded to herself. “Here for me, then. You will not drive me from these forests. The other shems could not do it, the darkspawn could not, and you will fare no better.” Her imperious gaze drifted to Líadan and hardened further. “You!” The magic snapped to encompass both hands once again, and she pointed at Líadan with her right. “Do you work for the shems?”

“What are you doing here?” Líadan asked, deliberately not answering the other elf’s question. “Where is your clan?”

The other elf huffed and turned her attention back to Malcolm, arms falling to her sides. “His kind have been hounding me for months. He killed my friends! And those merchants? First they took my niece, and then they kidnapped my sister! Those caravans are only the beginning. I want Seranni and Rósín returned to me or...” She lost momentum for a moment, scrounging for a threat. “Or more will die. Deliver this message, shem!” She lifted her arm and pointed at Malcolm, energy once again crackling around her hand. Her voice dropped in volume, but lifted in intensity. “Consider this a warning.” The roots sprung up, enveloping the elf. When they sank back into the ground, the elf was gone.

Malcolm tapped a finger on his chin as he squinted at the place where the elf had stood. Obviously, he had no intention of heeding the woman’s warning or of turning back and delivering any message. No, they would advance and find her and the darkspawn and deal with them both. Wouldn’t do to leave either one of them running amuck in the Wending Wood. 

“Friend of yours?” Anders asked Líadan.

She scoffed. “Hardly.” Then she looked about thoughtfully. “I wonder where her clan is. They should be with her. She has the abilities of a keeper, so she’s either a keeper’s apprentice or a full keeper. It makes no sense that she would be out here without them. And what’s that about her sister and niece?” She looked at Malcolm. “And you apparently killed her friends?”

“Not unless her friends are darkspawn. Which, judging by her lovely temperament, they could be.” He swished his sword in front of him. “Let’s get going. We’ve darkspawn to find and now another Dalish elf to torment.” He ignored the well-earned glare from Líadan and headed toward where he felt the darkspawn. Nathaniel silently rejoined them just after they crossed the bridge. As they walked up the cliffside path, the pull didn’t get much stronger even though he knew they were heading right for it. They passed by what might’ve once been an opening to a mine, but rubble from a recent rockfall had buried the entrance. Faint wisps of the taint clung to the rocks stuffed in the entrance, but Malcolm couldn’t feel the presence of any remaining darkspawn, or the heavier feel of the taint that’d been in the Tevinter mirror. He mindlessly kicked at one of the stones and started up the next section of the path.

“Buxom wenches were at the top of this hill,” Oghren said. 

Líadan didn’t even bother to glare. 

They crested the rise and cautiously strode into a possibly Dalish encampment. It looked mostly abandoned, a few aravels grouped into a small half-circle. Oghren frowned at the scene, the carelessly discarded pile of weapons, the freshly dug graves, and recently doused firepit. “Don’t you Dalish elves travel in packs, like you’ve been saying?” he said, with a glance toward Líadan. “What’s with the tiny camp?” He pointed. “And there—looks like there was a bit of a fight, but no bodies. Just all these weapons. Something smells here, and it isn’t me.”

Anders sniffed loudly. “Hmm. I don’t know about that. It could be you, dwarf.”

“Fine, in _addition_ to me, mage.”

Malcolm ignored the two of them, watching Líadan instead. Her green eyes had taken on a faraway look as she surveyed the area, the sides of her mouth pulling slightly downward. She slowly walked away from the clump of Wardens, moving from grave to grave, fingers gently touching the leaves of what looked like newly planted trees over each one. When she reached the aravels, she stuck her head inside each one, as if searching for something. For what, Malcolm had no idea. After she looked in the last one, she wandered back to her fellow Wardens, more than a bit shaken. “What’s wrong?” he asked her.

“I don’t know. Something terrible happened here. I can feel it, little tears in what you call the Veil, almost like sorrow is seeping through it.” She shrugged. “I can’t describe it well enough. Let’s go find the... actually, you know what, I think the taint we’re feeling is a ghoul.”

Malcolm nodded. “I think so, too. I’m not feeling any other sort of darkspawn. I think there might’ve been some where that mine or Deep Roads entrance was, but with the cave-in, they must’ve left. We should go find the ghoul and put whoever it is out of their misery.” He started walking, following the tug of the taint.

“A ghoul?” Anders asked from behind him. “You mean like a human being?”

“No, I mean like a ghoul,” Malcolm replied. “As in, not a human or elf or dwarf any longer, but a darkspawn. A darkspawn that can go berserk, kill others through violence or just by spreading the taint. They’re another type of darkspawn that we have to kill, no matter how much they still look human.” Unbidden, the bitter image of Leliana and the taint claiming her arm and advancing through her body appeared in his mind. Next to him, Líadan reached out and briefly touched his arm, letting him know that she remembered their friend, too.

“Aye,” said Oghren. “She was a good woman.”

Anders glanced over at Nathaniel, who shrugged. Both of them stayed respectfully silent as they continued to search for the ghoul. Shortly, they found the unlucky man collapsed under a partially-fallen tent. The man still possessed the ability to talk, however slowly, and relayed to them what he knew had happened in the woods. According to him, darkspawn had been in the Woods in the days and weeks before, killing or kidnapping the humans. Then they’d done the same to the elves in the area, but left the pile of human weapons to make it look like humans had done it. Malcolm reeled at the implications, that these darkspawn had tricked the elves into attacking the humans, and then watched the fallout, all for sport. Astonishing and frightening.

“So all of these people died over a misunderstanding?” Anders spun and glared in the direction of the abandoned camp. “Maker, that’s horrible! We have to stop that woman, tell her she’s wrong! Do you think she’s back at that camp? We should try looking for her there.”

“I agree,” said Líadan. “And for some reason, it seemed it didn’t take much to convince her that the humans had attacked. Seriously, who leaves their weapons all in heap like that? Even the darkspawn don’t do that.”

“Most of your kind aren’t very fond of humans,” Malcolm said. “Even your clanmates seemed very ready to kill us all when they found us carrying your unconscious body through the forest. Took some convincing to let us help.”

Líadan opened her mouth to object, and then closed it. “Yes. Good point. I suppose it wouldn’t take much of a push given a simple enough motivation.”

Malcolm turned and asked the doomed man about the elf’s niece and sister, but he couldn’t give them any coherent answer. He mumbled something about an little elven girl seen in a nearby village, but taken by templars. As for the woman, most likely she had been kidnapped by the darkspawn and would never be seen again. Then the ghoul asked Malcolm for peace, and he granted it, as he would have anyway, as that was his duty as a Grey Warden. The five of them then started the short walk back to the encampment to find the Dalish elf once again. Malcolm felt a horrible sense of foreboding about the niece. With all the additional templars looking for Morrigan in out of the way places, Dalish elves possessing magical ability would be in greater danger of Chantry interference. If the child had exhibited any magic with a templar to witness, they would take her without question. But what of the mother, Seranni, the angry elf’s sister? He wasn’t sure how her disappearance would fit into it, unless she went looking for her child and the darkspawn took her instead. After they figured out what to do with this elf, they would have to canvass the nearby towns. They needed to track down the truth about the missing Dalish child and templar involvement. 

Apparently, the Dalish elf had been tracking their movements, and as soon as they took a step towards the hilltop, she appeared above them. Her arms shook in anger, the very air around her crackling. “Why are you still here?” she shouted down at them. “I told you to stay away from me! I warned you! This place is not for you!”

“The humans didn’t kidnap your sister,” Líadan said. 

The other elf scoffed. “I know a shem crime when I see it. I have experienced more than enough of them. You will pay for repeating their lies!” She extended her hands, the greenish energy flying out and into the trees below her, the ones around Malcolm and the other Wardens. There were creaks and groans from the wood, shuddering from the ground as long-buried roots were jerked out of the soil. Limbs pushed forward and the newly-awakened trees lumbered towards the intruders. The pulse of green energy stopped then roots shot up and took the Dalish elf away once again. 

“She’s certainly one for dramatic exits,” said Nathaniel.

“What, am I going to start falling into the sky next?” Oghren said, hefting his axe.

“Anyone got any bandits in your pocket to throw at them?” Anders asked. “No? I suppose I’ll have to set them on fire, then. Stand back!” With that, the mage flicked his wrists, flame shooting out of his hands and he moved in a slow circle, lightning each shambling tree on fire. Líadan recovered form her gaping and added to the inferno, using the non-bladed end of her stave to give her spell additional power. The other three Wardens stood back and watched the conflagration, Malcolm feeling a bit useless. If the elf had stayed, he could’ve hit her with a holy smite, but her disappearance had put a halt to that. Not that he shouldn’t have just hit her with the smite in the first place and asked questions later, but actions like that always felt a bit too templar-like to him. 

The attacking trees drew away, tipping over and falling as they continued to burn. The group left them behind, intent on catching up with the troublesome Dalish elf.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

“In your heart shall burn

An unquenchable flame

All-consuming, and never satisfied.”

— _Canticle of Threnodies 5:7_

**Malcolm**

The elf stood above one of the fresh graves, head and shoulders bowed. She had no magic summoned, so he didn’t need to smite her straight off. She heard their unmasked approach, head tilting ever-so-slightly in their direction. Malcolm stopped near the middle of the camp, treating the angry elf like a skittish colt—albeit a particularly violent, dangerous colt. He had no idea what would be done with the woman. She’d murdered many people, that much was true. But should she have to answer to human or Dalish justice? And where was her clan? He remembered what’d happened when he and the rest of his group had found Líadan and how quickly the rest of her clanmates had appeared to protect her. The campsite they stood in right now was much too small to be a full clan’s. Besides that, he’d never heard of a Dalish clan living amongst Tevinter ruins. Near them, yes, as Líadan was testament to that fact. But not _in_ them. Not enough trees or other vegetation or nature type... stuff.

Silently, Malcolm studied the elf, at how her posture told of someone very close to being broken, yet still remained unbowed. _Vir Bor’assan_ , he thought. Bend, but never break, as Líadan had once explained. He wasn’t sure if this woman followed the same tenets, though. With all the carnage left in this elf’s wake, there seemed a lot broken. He wondered what elven god her tattoo represented. Choice of what _vallaslin_ they had tended to reveal a lot about an elf’s character. Then again, he really needed to do more about learning about all of the gods of the elven pantheon. Not only would it help him in any further dealings with the Dalish, but it could also help with the search for Morrigan, and finding the possible origins of Flemeth. For the old woman—though he didn’t believe for a moment that’s what she truly was—had to be far, far older than humanity, and perhaps older even than the ancient elves.

The elf’s head turned a little more toward them, and she said, “You... you will never take me alive.” Despite the bravado in the words she spoke, she sounded resigned. Ready to die.

Malcolm sighed. “Why do people always assume I’m going to kill them?” he asked no one in particular.

“Could be the trail of bodies in your wake. Oh, and all that blood on your armor,” said Anders. “Just a guess.”

He waved the mage off, looking at elf instead. “In case you didn’t pick up on it just now, I’m not going to kill you.”

“But I might,” said Líadan.

Malcolm despaired inside, because he really needed these two at odds when he was trying to convince one to stop setting trees on them and not run away again. You know, when he was trying to be _diplomatic_ , something that was already difficult for him to begin with. Why was it his luck to run into a rampaging Dalish elf while having another Dalish elf in his company, yet instead of helping with relating to the other elf, she had to be antagonistic? It also didn’t help that the real reason why was cranky over the matter was because _he_ wanted to be the antagonistic one, and she’d usurped his place.

“I knew I liked you for a reason,” said Oghren.

“Shut up, dwarf,” she shot back to her fellow Warden, without looking away from the other elf. “What is your name and clan?”

The elf faced them fully. “Velanna,” she started, and then turned away, gazing at the young saplings planted over the shallow graves. Her voice softened, hesitated, and became scratchy. “Of the Calliel clan.”

Líadan nodded as if she recognized the name. “Calliel,” she repeated. “Your clan is normally in this region year round, but when we were here during the Blight, before the Battle of Denerim, your clan was gone.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow at the not-so-subtle admonition, but remained silent.

“We were too few to help in what was largely a shem matter,” Velanna said, sneering as she referred to the humans, and then looked at Malcolm. “And I will not go with you to some shem magistrate, either. I won’t bow to your rules just as I would not fight your wars.” She looked pointedly at Líadan. “I fight only for our people.”

Líadan’s eyes slowly swept over the graves behind Velanna, at the fallen, burning trees outside the campsite, and then returned to the other elf. “ _Ma’din elvhen_ ,” she said evenly, the calmness a stark contrast to the tightening of her jaw. “ _Ma nuvenin unan._ ”

Whatever Líadan said had a remarkable effect on Velanna. Her light eyes darkened in outrage, her movements became jerky as she sought to collect her anger. “ _Ma’din elvhen’asha!_ _Ma lath shemlen! Arinan navhenan’ara!_ ” Velanna flung back, hands working in and out of fists as she seethed.

Líadan visibly flinched at the words, eyes narrowing slightly, but she never looked away. Then she took a breath and released it slowly before telling the other elf, “ _Madar tu elvhen suledin revas’din la numin_. _Ma nuvenin revas? Halamnan him revas._ ” When Velanna didn’t answer, yet also didn’t try to run, Líadan switched to Fereldan. “The darkspawn were playing the humans against the elves.” She pointed at the heap of weapons. “Those? Obviously planted. No one discards their weapons like that. But you’ve seen only what you’ve wished to see.”

Velanna looked from the weapons to Líadan. “The darkspawn are mindless, how is that even possible? And if it’s as you say, that means the darkspawn killed my people and took my niece and sister. Since when do the darkspawn capture and not kill? Why would the darkspawn do this?”

“Why do the darkspawn do anything, indeed?” Nathaniel said with a shrug.

Malcolm had to agree with that sentiment. He still wondered what in the Maker’s name Líadan and Velanna had said to each other in Elvish. Whatever it was, it had worked to keep Velanna from bolting. One thing was certain after hearing that: it had been Líadan’s voice he’d heard speaking while he was in that dream-state. What it meant, he didn’t know, but it was a small step to figuring it out. And that was far more information than he had about the appearance of the two dragons in the other dream. For _that_ one, he wasn’t even where to start.

“What is your name and clan, now that I have told you mine?” Velanna asked Líadan.

“Líadan Mahariel, now of the Grey Wardens,” she replied, sounding almost proud, if Malcolm wasn’t mistaken. Which he was certain he could be, and probably was, considering it was Líadan, and he was pretty much always mistaken about her.

Velanna took in the rest of them: Nathaniel standing off to the side, fingering his bowstring, Anders idly twirling his stave, Oghren leaning on the handle of his battleaxe and leering openly, Líadan practically staring the other elf down, Malcolm barely covering a youthful, restless energy as he tried to stand still under the elf’s scrutiny. “You have no reason to trust me,” she said suddenly, “but let me come with you.”

For a moment, all of the Wardens stared dumbly at the Dalish elf, as disbelieving of their ears as when they’d heard the first talking darkspawn.

Anders spoke up first. “No, can’t think of a reason to trust you. The whole ‘setting giant moving trees to attacking us’ didn’t make for a very good first impression. You might want to work on that.”

Oghren’s leer shifted into a grumble. “Just what we need, another twitchy magic sort.” Líadan smacked him in the back of the head with her palm, causing him to grin up at her in thanks for proving his point. She huffed and looked elsewhere.

Malcolm glanced at Nathaniel, who only offered a listless shrug in return. He sighed and looked at Velanna. “Why? What do you want?” Because he really had no idea what to do. Well, he had a vague idea: that they still needed to find out about the child and the templars and the darkspawn and how many people this woman had killed, elf and human. And from that, there had to be some approximation of justice. Having Velanna accompany them voluntarily would certainly be easier than trying to forcibly bring her with them. He couldn’t see that course of action going over well at _all_. “You killed those people. And like Anders said, you attacked us. Aren’t you supposed to be looking for your niece and sister? What of them?”

She sighed dramatically, even adding a slight eye-roll to the end. “Yes, I fell for the darkspawn deception and I took lives, this is true. I admit it. I see now that this was a mistake.”

“You should have a lot sooner,” said Líadan.

Velanna ignored her, addressing Malcolm. “I must get Seranni and Rósín back. I must find them. If you say the darkspawn took them, then you are my best hope at finding them. They say the Wardens can sense the darkspawn, how better to find them and my family?”

Nathaniel straightened. “So, what, we’re to be your hounds, is that it?”

“No,” she said to him, not saying an insult outright, but they all heard it nonetheless. “I would... make me one of you. Give me the ability to hunt down these monsters.”

“What?” Malcolm stared at her in askance.

Velanna crossed her arms. “I would join the Grey Wardens.”

He looked over at the others, to see if they’d heard the same thing or if he was losing his mind. Anders smirked. “Hey, you know, if you make her a Grey Warden, you’ll have the full set of mages you talked about.”

A smile briefly touched Malcolm’s lips at imagining the reaction of the templars on discovering more mages among the Grey Wardens’ ranks. But however amusing it would be to annoy the templars once again, Velanna joining the order didn’t seem very practical. She wanted to join so that she could gain an ability to help her track down her sister and niece. That was it. The smile disappeared and he looked at Líadan. She looked as if she had something to say—a lot of somethings, by the way her shoulders were set—but stopped herself. Most likely, he realized, because they were surrounded by other people and the person they were to be discussing was standing right there in front of them. And because said person was an elf, they’d have to walk a long, long way off to get out of earshot. He sighed and moved his gaze to Velanna. “We can just try to find your sister and niece for you. It needs to be investigated, as the darkspawn were here, in that mine with the cave-in, but they’re gone now. At least from here. We have to figure out where they went and help the people they took.” He didn’t say that by ‘help’ he meant ‘kill out of mercy.’ Wouldn’t go over well. Didn’t take a genius to figure that out.

“I will not leave their fates in the hands of strangers!” Velanna shouted. She certainly did a lot of shouting. Perhaps it was good she spent a lot of time outdoors, because Malcolm was beginning to see that the elf didn’t quite possess an ‘inside voice.’ As if she’d heard his thoughts, the elf dropped the volume of her voice. “I must seek out these darkspawn personally.” She scowled and clapped her hands together. “I will pledge my service to you in exchange for the powers your order can grant. What say you?”

“What happens when we find them? What then? Being a Grey Warden isn’t something you can just walk away from. You join and you join for life. Joining means you cannot return to your clan.” He wasn’t even sure why he was pointing that out. It wasn’t his choice to make—it was Riordan’s. They just had to get Velanna back to Vigil’s Keep, and then this messy matter would be out of his hands. And realistically, were they even to find Seranni and Rósín, they would be dead at best, broodmothers at worst. He shuddered, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Líadan do the same. She’d come to the same conclusion he had, then. 

“Then I would stay with the Wardens and continue to kill darkspawn for having taken them,” Velanna replied after a moment’s thought. “The Grey Wardens would become my clan.” She looked to Líadan for confirmation. Líadan studied her curiously for a moment, as if she was going to pose a question to the non-Warden, but nodded instead.

Malcolm wondered what that was about, but didn’t ask. He’d do that later, back at the Vigil and out of earshot of this vengeful elf. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter what I think, because it isn’t my decision to make.” He rushed into his next words before Velanna could object, “I’m not saying no. And I’m not saying yes. You can come with us back to the Vigil and speak with our Warden Commander there to see what he says.”

“You will not bring me! I will not be put in shackles!” Velanna shouted, jumping back, hands heading for her staff. “I will not face shem justice!”

“Who said anything about shackles? We don’t even _have_ shackles,” said Malcolm. He screwed up his face in thought as he tried to defuse the situation. “We’ve horses. And a dog. There’s three soldiers out with the dog and the horses, but I’m pretty sure they don’t have any shackles with them.” When the elf didn’t crack, he sighed. “Look, I wasn’t saying for you to come with us as a prisoner. Just come with us. If Riordan, our Warden Commander, decides that you aren’t to join the Wardens and must face justice, we can make sure it’s the Dalish who deal with you, and not humans.” Her hands didn’t move closer to her stave, but they didn’t move away, either. That was something, he supposed. “It’s the best I can do, especially considering you’ve admitted to killing people. Besides, we’ll need your help for the investigation about the darkspawn movements, along with your niece and sister.”

Velanna’s arms slowly moved to hang at her sides as she narrowed her eyes at Malcolm. Then she gave him a short nod. “ _Ma serannas_ ,” she said. “I will come with you, then.”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes, unsure if the Elvish phrase she’d said meant ‘thank you’ or ‘sod you,’ as her tone didn’t quite make it clear. Unable to think of what else to do, he just nodded back. Then he glanced over at Líadan to see what her thoughts where, but she’d returned to surveying the campsite once again and had her back to him. He looked at the sky to check the position of the sun, realizing that they needed to get going if they were to return to the Vigil before nightfall. As he had no wish to camp outside when it could be avoided—there was enough of that during the Blight—he motioned the group onward. “We need to get back to the horses.”

Velanna spun on her heel and headed in the direction of the crossroads. After exchanging mutual shrugs, Anders and Nathaniel went after her. Oghren drummed his stubby fingers on the handle of his battleaxe, and then removed a small flask from his beard. After a lengthy sip and a satisfied smack of his lips, he tucked the flask away and followed the others.

“So _that’s_ where he keeps it,” Malcolm said.

Líadan laughed. “That’s just one place he keeps them. He’s got more flasks stashed in more places than Zevran and Leliana had hidden lockpicks.”

“That’s... a lot of ale.” He moved out onto the path, not wanting the others to drop out of sight. On the other hand, he could tell that Líadan wanted to talk, and didn’t want their new acquisition to hear it. That meant playing a game of seeing just how far he was willing to lag behind the others before he got nervous. As he was the only one present with templar abilities, he didn’t want to risk not being close enough should Velanna suddenly revert to her off the wall ways. As they continued to walk, Líadan kept making frustrated noises, informing him that he wasn’t falling far enough behind to meet her approval. But he was as far out as he dared, and stubbornly kept up the pace to inform Líadan that this was all she’d get. 

She heaved another frustrated sigh, turned to him, and started to talk. Except when she spoke, it wasn’t in Fereldan, or even Elvish. Instead, she was speaking Orlesian. Or at least trying to, as it sounded like it’d been butchered by a cleaver, and then smashed into tiny pieces with a hammer. He was so intent on not laughing out loud that he didn’t catch anything she said, and eventually, he lost the fight with the laughter anyway. When it finally burst out of him, she scowled mightily, and snapped, “Oh, Creators take you and keep you!” Then she rapped him on the shin with the bottom of her staff for good measure and stalked forward, leaving him to his chuckles.

Anders, who had started drifting back, watched Líadan in mild amusement as she passed by him. “You know,” the mage said to Malcolm as he caught up, “when she shouts ‘Creators take you and keep you!’ I don’t think she means it in a nice way. In fact, I think she means Creators, take you and—”

“I get it, I get it. She’s pissed at me. Again. Don’t worry, this was a constant thing during the Blight. And after the Blight. And at Weisshaupt and to and from Weisshaupt. I really don’t foresee any changes in this behavioral pattern in the near or even far future. You know, basically, ever.” Malcolm lightly hit the top of his thigh with the flat of his sword as he walked. They’d already passed over the bridge and by the cooling embers and ash of what had been the burning caravan from before.

“So what did you do this time? She was talking to you and you just started laughing?”

“No. Well, sort of. She was talking in Orlesian.”

“How is that funny?” Anders cocked his head to the side, as if imagining their fellow Warden speaking Orlesian. “You know, when you really get to thinking about it, an attractive elf speaking Orlesian? _Hot_.”

“Not when said elf can’t actually speak the language.”

“Oh, well. Then I can see how it turned out the way it did with you.” He pursed his lips. “If said elf can’t speak Orlesian, why was she trying to use that language in the first place?”

Malcolm inclined his head forward, toward Velanna, who was far ahead of them. Most likely, she couldn’t hear them. However, he was fairly certain that Líadan _could_ and that both he and Anders would pay for this conversation later, with a lot of pain.

“Ah. And what did she have to say? I’m curious.”Anders held up his hands. “Oh, no, wait. Let me guess. You were too preoccupied with your laughing fit to actually have heard anything she said, weren’t you?”

“You might want to start taking bets on how long it will be until she speaks to me again.”

Anders seemed somewhat sympathetic. “That bad? I mean, it isn’t like she _really_ hit you when she knocked you with her staff. I’ve seen her do much worse. To you, specifically, even.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I don’t know... does it?”They heard a stick crack from the forest to their left, and then another from their right. Malcolm instantly dropped into a defensive stance as Anders summoned his magic. “Okay, forget you, _that_ doesn’t make _me_ feel better,” said Anders.

Ahead of them, the others dropped back to where Anders and Malcolm stood back to back. Malcolm couldn’t feel any of the taint aside from the residual taint left from the darkspawn problem before, so it wasn’t the darkspawn. It could be a beast, but they weren’t really the optimal prey, especially in broad daylight. Bandits would’ve made themselves known by now.

Then a different group of travelers appeared from the forest, strolling to the dirt path with a silent, confident grace. They’d trod on those sticks on purpose, then. Their fierce eyes and tattooed faces marked them as Dalish, as did their pointed ears and the majority of them being armed with bows. However, the bows were down, not nocked and drawn. “ _Andaran atish’an_ , strangers,” one started saying. The leader, Malcolm supposed, a male elf with dark cornrows, looked over the group with a practiced eye, but when those eyes caught Velanna, they couldn’t hide their surprise.

“Merren?” Velanna said, staring at him, sounding like she’d assumed the man dead.

“Velanna?” said Merren, and then his tone turned snide. “Well, well, this is certainly a surprise. You traveling with—”

“Humans,” Velanna finished for him. “Yes. Believe me, the irony does not escape me, clanmate.”

Merren’s formerly hard features softened, as did his voice. “We are not your clan, Velanna.”

Malcolm looked from Velanna to Merren and back again. She had no clan? Was she some sort of impostor, then? An apostate city elf mage claiming to be Dalish in order to cover a blood magic ability that drove her exotic powers? “So you aren’t Dalish?” he said to her. Líadan’s punch to his arm told him how insensitive and unthoughtful it was. Before he could apologize for choosing his words poorly, Velanna had already reacted.

“I am still Dalish!” she shouted at him. “I will _always_ be Dalish!”

“Velanna was exiled,” Merren started to explain. “She does not _have_ a clan. We—”

Velanna interrupted him. “Stop. I do not wish to speak of this.”

“Well, I certainly do,” said Líadan. “You told me you were of the Calliel clan. You lied.” From the look of incredulous disgust on Líadan’s face, Malcolm started to wonder just what sort of acts it took to get an elf exiled from a Dalish clan. He knew, from what they’d seen of Líadan’s clan during the Blight, just how close-knit the Dalish were. Clans were their extended family, not just some rough association of wild elves who traveled together. Líadan’s separation from her own clan, though not from exile, had been horribly traumatic for both sides. Sadness and mourning, due to the illness from the taint and the encroaching Blight, had marked everything about it. In the end, her clan had to force her to leave for her own good. She loved them enough that she wanted to stay with them, even though it would have meant her own death. But they’d loved her enough to send her away, so that she could live. That part, at least, Malcolm empathized with, figuring the pain like he’d felt that night when his dying foster parents, killed by Rendon Howe, had sent him with Duncan. For both him and Líadan, joining the Grey Wardens had been a forced act of desperate sadness, and trying to replace a purpose and a people that had been lost to them.

“And you told me you were of the Mahariel, but you are a Grey Warden,” Velanna shot back. “Dalish Grey Wardens give up their clans when they join.”

“Mahariel?” said Merren. “You are the Grey Warden of theirs, then? Líadan?”

Her answer was hesitant, and almost not at all, like she was afraid to hope. “Yes.”

Merren gave her with a gentle smile. “Your clan misses you. They have left Ferelden, gone north to start anew. My clan passed them as we returned to this country after the Blight.”

Líadan practically beamed at Merren for the news of her clan, however scant it was. It was more the knowledge that they remembered her, Malcolm knew. Merren had given her a special gift in hope. Then her smile faded and her serious Warden demeanor returned. “Velanna mentioned that you did not stay with the rest of the clans to help the Grey Wardens during the Blight? Is this true of your whole clan?”

He sighed and looked away, covering shame and sadness. Then he said, “Yes. Our entire clan had been vastly reduced in an attack by the darkspawn. We lost three-quarters of our hunters  in that one battle. We did not have the numbers to help with the Grey Warden treaty, or even to defend ourselves, so we left Ferelden to escape the Blight. You know, we were not the only clan to leave this place. My clan ran into another, the Ra’asiel clan, as they headed out of the Planasene Forest. We were heading inward, returning to Ferelden, and had already seen the Mahariel. From our conversations, we gathered the Ra’asiel had summered in the Planasene instead of the Brecilian and were heading for the Sedim Forest for winter, as they normally do. I only bring this up because they were acting... strangely. Wary, even around other Dalish.” Merren shrugged. “But Keeper Zathrian was always... you know. Zathrian. Even before the Blight. There were also whispers of werewolves after the Ra’asiel again, but we all know how long that’s been rumored.”

Both Líadan and Velanna nodded. Apparently this Dalish keeper of the Ra’asiel was well known amongst other clans, yet remained entirely unknown among humans. Interesting, that these Dalish clans traveled throughout human dominated lands, and humans knew so little of them. Their language, much to Malcolm’s chagrin lately, their culture, even their politics. Malcolm paused in his thoughts. What was that Merren had said? “Werewolves?” he asked, almost afraid to do so.

Merren nodded. “Yes. Dalish thing, I guess. For some reason, the Ra’asiel clan has had the worst luck when it comes to those beasts for hundreds of years. Rumors started some time ago, at least among the Dalish, that the werewolves hunted them specifically.”

“I didn’t know such a thing existed, still,” said Malcolm.

“Still?” said Anders. “Don’t you mean _ever_?”

“No, I mean ‘still.’ Has to do with my foster family’s history, you see. The Couslands didn’t become actual teyrns until the Black Age, when they united a bunch of banns to fight against the werewolves.” At Anders’ dubious look, Malcolm said, “Really. True story. Well, true enough that my childhood tutor told me it was true during daily lessons. It wasn’t like it was a bedtime story told to me by my older brother Fergus because he thought it was great fun to scare me.”

“Not falling for it. You’re just trying to have me on. It’s an initiation thing, right?” Anders looked at the other Wardens. “Right?”

“Malcolm is telling the truth,” Nathaniel said. “At least, according to my tutor as well. There’s actually an entire story called _The Saga of_ _Dane and the Werewolf._ Most of the nobility in Ferelden claims to be descended from the hero Dane. Of course, no one can actually prove it. But, there it is anyway.”

Merren had paid close attention to the entire exchange, bright eyes flickering back and forth between the participants. “You shemlen are strange,” he finally said.

“You have _no_ idea,” said Líadan.

“Hey!” said Malcolm, not wanting that remark to go by. Neither did he want the look Merren gave Líadan to go without comment, but he had no right to object.

Then Merren sighed as he quickly glanced up at the sun. “Velanna, where are the others who went with you? They may come back with us, if they wish.”

None of them missed the pained expression that passed on Velanna’s face before she could mask it, either from the memory of those that had been with her, or because she was not invited back to her clan. “They are dead. Seranni and Rósín are gone, taken by the darkspawn.”

“Ilshae warned her not to go after Rósín like you said, Velanna,” Merren said, temper flaring into his voice. “You see what you brought on her?”

Velanna lifted her chin. “Then tell Ilshae that she was right! Oh, I can see her smug—”

“Ilshae has passed on,” said Merren, cutting off her invectives. “You know nothing but hatred. The clan is better off without your poison.” He looked to Malcolm. “We have lingered too long, and the shadows will soon grow deep. May Andruil guide your path.” Then he signaled with his hand, and he and the rest of the hunting party with him melted into the forest nearby.

Malcolm and the Wardens were left standing uncomfortably in the middle of the cart path, casting looks to and away from Velanna. Finally, a look from Nathaniel made her say, “Do not make a fuss over me! Let us be on our way!” Then she strode off as she had earlier: down the road, away from them, and in a huff.

Another moment passed as the group stared down at where Velanna had gone. Each of them held a bewildered expression except for Líadan—hers was a strange mixture of curiosity and anger. Nathaniel mumbled something about making sure the soldiers knew it was them coming and not letting Velanna get to them first, and ran ahead of them. Anders shrugged at Oghren, and then dwarf and mage set forth behind the angry elf. 

“Exiled,” Líadan said quietly once the other two had gotten far enough ahead of her and Malcolm that they wouldn’t be overheard by them. “I wonder what happened.”

Malcolm figured that after the encounter with Velanna’s former clan, Líadan’s frustration with him was forgotten. Probably not forgiven, but he’d take what he could get. “She doesn’t exactly appear to be forthcoming in the matter,” he said, and then indicated with his head that they should at least start walking towards the horses again.

“No, but she will be.” At Malcolm’s raised eyebrow, Líadan said, “I intend to get it from her. You’ve probably already worked out that getting exiled requires doing something pretty bad. And somehow, I don’t think it was all the travelers she killed that forced her exile. I don’t like it. And I don’t like _her_ , either. I hope Riordan refuses her request to join.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really? Why? I didn’t think you cared about the Grey Wardens that much.”

“That is a really long conversation we don’t have time to get into right now,” she replied. “The one about how I feel about the Wardens, at least. However, about Velanna—she’s everything that makes humans believe horrible things about the Dalish. She’s the reason the rumors and myths continue that my people kidnap humans and sacrifice them to our elven gods. She’s the reason humans will never trust the Dalish and why humans barely tend to react any better to a Dalish elf than they would a wild animal.” Líadan had gone rigid as she’d talked, frustration with the other Dalish elf rising to levels she hadn’t reached in a while. Using her staff, she pointed back toward the forest they’d come from. “She killed Creators know how many innocent people back there on the flimsiest pretext of evidence I’ve ever seen. All she wanted was an excuse to exercise her hatred on the most violent level possible, and once she found it, that’s exactly what she did. She doesn’t even feel sorry that she did it, she’s only sorry that she got _caught_. I’m almost tempted to say that she’s more of a bitch that Morrigan ever was or will be.”

The retort Malcolm had readied as Líadan ranted was forgotten at the mention of the witch. How many times was it just that day that Líadan had told him to not think of Morrigan? And here she was, bringing her up. Then again, she’d just compared Morrigan to a crazy, homicidal elf, so that really didn’t say a whole lot about anything good. “Velanna does kind of make Morrigan seem like a warm, sunny day, doesn’t she?”

Líadan wasn’t willing to let the comparison go that far. “A warm, sunny day that, within moments, turns into a devastating storm that lays waste across the entire land.”

“I was getting to that part,” he said, playful smile on his lips. “I just wanted to enjoy the warmth first, but you just had to rain on my parade. Keep that up and you’ll end up like Velanna.”

Líadan’s head snapped around and she shook the blunt end of her staff in his face. “What? You take that back!” Then she paused, noticing how she was threatening him—like Velanna—and slowly withdrew her staff while stepping away. “Very funny.” She resumed walking. “But my point still stands. I don’t like her.”

“She uses the word ‘shem’ a lot, something you don’t do,” Malcolm said, giving voice to a thought he’d had earlier. “I know that word is Elvish, but does it mean ‘human’ or does it translate to something a lot nastier?”

The elf glanced at Malcolm thoughtfully, taking in both the question and the meaning behind the question. “Shem is short for shemlen,” she said. “It was the word the ancient elves gave to humans when they first met them in the Tevinters. Elves back then... they didn’t die. But humans _did_ die and their lives were painfully short compared to an elf’s. So they called the humans shemlen, which means ‘quick children’ in ancient Elvish, because they lived barely an instant in comparison to the millennia of an elf’s lifetime.”

“So what made the elves start dying like humans?” 

Líadan shrugged. “Contact with humans, apparently. Just interacting with humans for any sort of significant time made an elf mortal. And for the first time that they could remember, elves were dying of diseases, illnesses that came from humans. At first, they didn’t notice the mortality aside from the illnesses. When they did figure out that their lives were being shortened, they tried to pull away from the Tevinters. The Tevinters took their sudden attempt at isolationism as a threat, and that’s why they attacked and buried Arlathan and enslaved the elves.”

“Sounds like what the Chantry did to the elves when they called the Exalted March on the Dales,” he said.

She looked at him in surprise. “You don’t believe the Chantry’s version of it?”

“No. Never did. Not when you look at history and how the ancient elves were almost always isolationists. There was no reason for the elves to start making trouble on the borders. Besides, the only reason the Chantry calls an Exalted March on anyone or anything is because they believe something different from them. The elves in the Dales weren’t Andrastians and didn’t want to convert, so the Chantry called an Exalted March. The Tevinter Imperium decided they interpreted some of the Chant of Light differently and split off from the main Chantry, and when the Chantry got wind of that, what did they do? Exalted March. Four of them, to be exact. Then the qunari invaded with their belief in the Qun, and they got three Exalted Marches called on them. The Chantry, for all on how they brought about change in Andraste’s actions, doesn’t much like change.If they could, I think they’d call an Exalted March on change itself.”

“To be fair, change _can_ be dangerous,” said Líadan.

Malcolm nodded. “It can also be good. The problem is that you never know which it is until things have already changed. After that, there’s no going back. Maybe that’s where the danger truly is—trying to force things back to the way they were after they’ve already changed.” From the considering look that overtook Líadan’s eyes, Malcolm wasn’t sure they were still really talking about the Chantry, but it was an interesting conversation to him nonetheless, so he pressed on. “And how do you know when things have changed, anyway?”

“You’re trying to figure out if there’s been a change?”

“Maybe.”

Líadan smirked at him. “You’ll know there’s been a change when the Chantry calls an Exalted March on you.”

“Oh, ha sodding ha. You know that isn’t what I was—” Malcolm fell silent, hearing hoofbeats on the road.

One of their soldiers rode around the bend, shouting, “My lord!” as soon as he saw Malcolm. He and Líadan ran toward the soldier, who slowed the horse to a walk, and then a halt. “My lord, we’ve found some templars out here. You need to see them.”

“Templars?” Malcolm wondered if they were the templars they’d seen back at the Vigil or another party. Perhaps they were the templars the near-ghoul had spoken about earlier. In any case, it seemed templars were thicker around Ferelden than darkspawn lately. “Did you speak with them?”

The soldier shifted uneasily in his saddle. “Uh, no, my lord. I misspoke. I mean, we found some templar _bodies_. They’re dead, ser, all three of them, in a ditch just beyond the main path.”

“Show me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish Translations:
> 
> -Líadan: “Ma’din elvhen. Ma nuvenin unan.”  
> “You are not my people. You want vengeance alone.”
> 
> -Velanna: “Ma’din elvhen’asha! Ma lath shemlen! Arinan navhenan’ara!”  
> “You are not an elven woman! You love humans! I see your heart’s desire!”
> 
> -Líadan: “Madar tu elvhen suledin revas’din numin. Ma nuvenin revas? Halamnan him revas.”  
> “You are the cause of our people’s enduring slavery and tears. You want freedom? The end of vengeance becomes freedom.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

“O Falon’Din

Lethanavir—Friend of the Dead

Guide my feet, calm my soul,

lead me to my rest.”

— _Dalish prayer to Falon’Din_

**Rósín**

The fires started as night turned to day.

Rósín awakened with the smell of smoke, a sharp, acrid scent different from the cookfires.  Not a smell of safety, comfort, and food, but danger. Looking toward the other bed within the aravel, she saw only rumpled covers in the place of her mother. If Mamae was outside helping then she would help, too, Rósín decided. She’d reached six summers only a few days ago, so she was old enough to contribute now, especially when something threatened her entire clan. A year ago, when they had fled what she heard the adults whisper to themselves as ‘darkspawn,’ she hadn’t been big enough to even flee on her own two feet. 

Outside the aravel, she saw the clan’s keeper, Ilshae, summoning ice and water from the air to put out the fires. Her aunt Velanna, as the keeper’s First, was at her side, half hurling directions to the clan’s hunters, and half helping with the magic. Nearby to Velanna stood Seranni, Rósín’s mother, contributing to the magical attacks on the fire. Just watching the three women at work made Rósín less frantic. After all, were it not for their talents, the keeper had said, the darkspawn would have wiped out their entire clan in the attack a year ago, before they had left for the Sedim Forest far to the north. Surely a small forest fire licking at the edges of their camp would prove no true threat in comparison. Though Rósín had yet to show any signs that she she possessed any of the same talents as her mother and aunt, she could help, too. Besides, her father hadn’t had any magic, and his actions had saved many people before the darkspawn were able to get him.

Silver-blonde hair blew across her face as wind kicked up from the flames and she ran across the camp to help the hunters. As they didn’t have any magic to summon water from the air, they used the buckets they kept next to the cookfires to move water from the stream. Shouts were relayed along with the full buckets, and Rósín wasn’t noticed in the confusion. No one would give her a bucket, or even indicated that they heard her asking for one. Knowing she could help, she gave up on the adults and found an abandoned bucket of her own and headed for the stream. Light trickled feebly through the smoke and mist, and she followed what she could see of the path to the stream. Then the wind picked up again, pushing the smoke into her face and into her lungs. The coughs bent her over double, the bucket dropping, forgotten, by her side.

Once the coughing fit passed, Rósín put her shirt over her mouth to try and keep the smoke out. It helped, but very little. Meanwhile, the smoke had gotten thicker, and she couldn’t see much beyond the tears stinging her eyes in grey-white cloud. She continued onward, straining to hear the gurgle of the stream or even the shouting of her clanmates. But only the crackling of the fire filled her ears and the tears streaming from her eyes weren’t just from smoke anymore. She was lost and she was scared. 

Then she remembered that, above all, she was _Dalish_ , and she need not be afraid. That’s what her aunt or mother always told her whenever she had nightmares. The forest would lead her to safety, she just had to listen with her whole body. So she did, using her feet and hands to wind her way through tree trunks, using her nose to follow the movement of fresh air threading through the heavy smoke. Eventually the trees thinned, along with the smoke, and the ground under her feet smoothed out. She wiped at her face with her sleeve, smearing soot and tears across her cheeks, and discovered she was on the shemlen-made road. Pilgrim’s Path, her mother had said when she’d asked the first time they traveled on it. She had accompanied her mother to a shemlen—no, her mamae had said the polite way to refer to them was ‘human’—village for the first time just after her birthday. Mamae had explained they were going to talk to the humans about peace, because the humans had started grumbling that they were there, threatening to chase them out. It made no sense to Rósín for the humans to make trouble with them—hadn’t there just been a huge war the humans had fought against the darkspawn? And hadn’t other Dalish and even the dwarves that lived within the rocks beneath their feet helped them defeat the darkspawn? But that was the way it was between humans and Dalish, her mother had said. Her aunt had told her then that ‘the shemlen only know war.’ Mamae had frowned at her sister for that sentiment and told her she was no different if she didn’t seek to change.

Her mother and aunt were like that, Mamae always saying they should work things out with the humans, Velanna always saying they should deal with the human threat once and for all, like the ancient _elvhenan_ should have. But their argument never ended and, like the others of their clan, Rósín grew weary of it and stopped listening. 

When they had arrived at the village, they found no violence awaiting them. The humans either ignored them or were nice enough. Some were even willing to listen about brokering peace, but the village’s leaders had gone to meet the new human noble appointed to rule this part of Ferelden. Other villagers pointed out that it was a family of farmers living at the extremities of the village’s border that objected to the Dalish, and not the rest of them. The family had just returned from the Free Marches to reclaim their lands after fleeing during the Blight. Apparently, most of the human villagers didn’t approve of them, as the village had contributed many of its own as soldiers to fight in the Grey Wardens’ army against the darkspawn. They also talked about how one of the Grey Wardens to lead the army had been Dalish, serving right next to the King and the Prince, each of them also Wardens. And if their new king, a good man by all accounts, could serve without reservation with a Dalish elf, how could they immediately fall into conflict with their Dalish neighbors? So they asked Seranni to return in a week’s time to speak with the elders, for hopefully they would be back by then. In the meantime, they would speak with the farmers and ask them to maintain peace.

Of course, as soon as Seranni told Velanna what had happened, Velanna declared the humans’ words to be all lies. Later that night, before going to bed, Rósín had asked her mother why her aunt hated humans so much. The only thing she could get from her mother was that when they were very young, some human bandits had killed Velanna’s best friend in a botched robbery attempt. Velanna had never forgotten it, nor had she forgiven it, no matter what her sister tried to help her heal. 

Not knowing how to return to her clan from this place on the road, Rósín followed it north, towards the village she and her mother had visited. She was supposed to return to it again eventually, and she could find her there. Or maybe the nice humans she and Mamae had spoken to would know where to bring her. It was her best hope, anyway, and she trudged on. Soon she could hear the early morning activity in the village ahead, sounds much the same as she would have heard in her clan’s camp. The sights that greeted her were familiar, too. The wispy smoke of cookfires rising into the air, eager hunters setting out into the trees with bows, merchants toting wares they wanted to display and sell, old women gathering in small groups near what Rósín guessed as a bake shop of some sort. The aroma of freshly-baked bread from the building tantalized her nose. As the cart path crossed from the dwindling woods and into the village proper, it changed from packed dirt to cobblestone. To Rósín, used to the soft, springy forest floor, it felt almost unnatural for the ground to be so hard and ungiving. 

She ventured forward, heading towards the older women. Most likely, just like in her clan, they would see a child her age and immediately want to take care of her. They would be the safest strangers to approach, then, she figured. But she didn’t reach them.

A hand, large and rough, slipped out of the shadows between two buildings and snatched hers into a tight grasp. She struggled against it, trying to run away, but the person was strong and dragged her back. Since she was a quiet child—very much in contrast to her aunt, her mother said—she didn’t scream at the outset. But when her attempt at running failed, she opened her mouth to do so, only to have another hand clamp over it. It was dirty and smelled faintly of vinegar and fish. 

“Stop struggling, knife-ear,” a deep, male voice hissed.

It only made her fight harder. She squirmed and bit, kicked and punched. Her struggles pulled them out of the dark alley and into the cobbled street. A jab of her elbow landed in a soft place behind her and the man let go, a strangled shout of pain falling from his lips. Rósín rolled, tumbling away from the man, catching glimpses of the ragged clothing stained with dirt and sweat. She inhaled to scream and the cloying smell of the man rushed into her nostrils. It turned her scream into a half-coughed yell, but it got people’s attention nonetheless.

Ahead of the pair, there was clattering on the cobblestones, and as Rósín righted herself, she saw it was caused by what her mother had called ‘horses’—beasts of burden that the humans used that were a tiny bit like the halla that the Dalish used. Atop the horses rode more humans in shining silverite plate armor, an upright sword etched on each breastplate. Once they got close to the human and the elven child, some dismounted. One of them pointed at the man, also now on his feet, and demanded to know what was going on.

“Just bringing this servant back home, Ser Templar,” the man answered. “She’s been missing, you see.”

The armored man—a templar, whatever that was—raised an eyebrow in the same way Rósín had seen Velanna do many times. “Is that so?”

“Yes, ser,” said the man.

“I’m not anyone’s servant!” Rósín shouted, before the man could do anymore lying.

“I would say not. I believe this child is Dalish, and the day I see a Dalish servant is the day I eat my helm,” said another one of the plated men. He removed his strange-looking helmet—which didn’t look very tasty—and smiled warmly at Rósín. “My name is Ser Donatien. What’s your name?”

“Rósín,” she replied as as clear a voice as she could muster. “Of the Calliel clan of the Dalish. There... there was a—”

“She’s lying!” the dirty man shouted.

“You’re only getting yourself into more trouble each time you talk,” the first templar said to the man, frowning at him. Then he looked around and asked the gathering crowd, “Where is the law in this village? This man has tried—or did—kidnap a child.”

“You have no right to condemn me!” said the man. “You’re an Orlesian. There is Ferelden  and a Fereldan matter. You have no place here unless you’re hunting mages. This child is no mage. You’ve no right!”

Rósín gazed up curiously at these templars, remembering pieces of conversations between her mother and aunt and their clan’s keeper. How the templars were to be avoided, how if they saw any of them using magic, they would try to take them away and lock them up in a tower with all the human and city elf mages. But these people didn’t seem mean at all, and had stopped this stranger from taking her away. Maybe her mother and aunt and keeper had been wrong about them.

“I think the well being of a child is of import no matter who you are,” said a third templar, a woman’s voice coming out from under the helm she wore.

“I agree,” said one of the old women Rósín had been trying to reach in the first place. “I’ll go fetch the magistrate. His home is close by.” She pushed through the crowd and strode quickly in the direction of what Rósín assumed to be the magistrate’s house.

The man slowly looked from the templars to the large crowd. Then he turned and fled. Two of the templars deftly maneuvered their mounts around the milling humans and galloped after the man. It took less than a minute for them to catch up and knock the man to the ground. Then they leapt off their horses, one of them taking rope from a saddlebag, and tied the man up.

“I remember you,” another woman said, after the commotion had died down and the templars had thrown the man over the rump of one of the horses to lead back. “You came into the village a short time ago, with another Dalish elf. Your mother, I assume?”

Rósín nodded. 

“These Dalish are close, then?” Ser Donatien asked the woman who’d spoken.

“Yes, they’re in the Wending Wood. We aren’t exactly sure where, but they’re somewhere nearby. There’s been a problem between them and some of the farmers. Trouble stirred up by the farmers, most likely. We asked them to leave the elves alone until the bann could speak for everyone, but they probably didn’t listen, and the bann has yet to return from his visit to the Vigil to meet the new arl.”

The lady templar slid off her horse and removed her helmet, shaking out long tresses of dark brown hair. She knelt at Rósín’s level, introduced herself as Ser Ava, and asked, “What happened to you?”

“There was a fire in the forest,” Rósín said. “I got lost while my clan was fighting it.”

“Started by the Ames family, no doubt,” said a man from the crowd. “Bloody cowards, the lot of them.”

Ser Ava motioned toward the man struggling against his bindings, who was hauled unceremoniously from the horse and dumped onto the cobblestones. “Did this man hurt you?”

“Not really. He just grabbed me when I was walking on the road,” she said. “He wanted me to keep quiet.”

“It’s a good job you didn’t,” said Ser Donatien, looking like he wanted to spit on the man.

“Your mother is probably worried about you,” said the woman who’d recognized Rósín.

Rósín nodded, shamefully trying to blink away sudden tears. She was supposed to be a brave Dalish elf and not a scared little girl. Ser Ava took off her gauntlet and put a warm and surprisingly strong hand on Rósín’s shoulder. “We’ll keep you safe,” she said. “Don’t worry. And we’ll make sure that man is locked up for taking you, too, so he doesn’t take any other little girls.”

“We’ll certainly see to it that justice is served to him,” said someone new, led by the woman who’d walked off earlier. Rósín assumed the new man with the short grey hair was the magistrate. He was very tall, even for a human. Rósín had to look up and up to see the man’s careworn face. “We can even bring the case to the arl, if need be. He’s the Warden Commander and, from what I hear, a respectable man. I daresay he wouldn’t look too kindly on grown men preying on little children.” He motioned towards a few burly men that had appeared at the edge of the crowd. They moved forward at the command, heaved the trussed-up man onto their shoulders, and carried him off.

“We could bring her back to her clan,” said Ser Donatien. “I mean, we’re going into the Wending Wood anyway. The Dalish usually watch humans who travel through the lands they’re in. If they see us with this child, they’ll stop us and we can give her back.”

“That is if they don’t shoot us full of arrows first, thinking we’re the ones who kidnapped her,” said the templar who had yet to speak before.

“You’re always such the optimist, Simon,” said Ser Ava. 

“That didn’t sound like optimism to me,” Rósín said, without thinking, “unless it means something different for humans than I was taught.” She put her hand over her mouth, shocked that she’d said something so impertinent around these strangers. And humans, at that.

She needn’t have worried, though, because the comment just made the adults laugh. “Whip-smart, this girl,” said Ser Donatien. “I can see why the Grey Wardens regard their Dalish Wardens so highly, if they’re all as smart and determined as this little one.”

Rósín felt a swell of pride at hearing that. To be compared to the Dalish Grey Warden, Líadan Mahariel, one of the very people who had helped kill the archdemon itself! Maybe one day she could meet her, or even grow up to be like her and join the Grey Wardens and fight the common enemy of every living thing on Thedas. 

“Come on,” said Ser Ava, easily picking up Rósín under the arms and settling her onto her horse, “let’s get you home to your people.”

“We’ll return after we’ve brought the girl home, Magistrate,” Ser Donatien said, and then mounted his own horse. “We can provide testimony.” He paused for a moment. “One question, though. Have you or anyone else in your town heard of a woman called Morrigan?”

The magistrate gave the templar a curious look. “You mean the Witch of the Wilds who helped the Grey Wardens during the Blight, and then disappeared?”

“That’s the one,” said Ser Simon.

“As I said, she disappeared. There’s rumors around that she was seen in Cumberland, possibly even with child, but I’ve not seen her personally. Nor have I heard that anyone else around these parts has seen her.”

“I heard that the child the witch carries is the prince’s,” said one of the old women.

“Oh?” said Ser Donatien.

Another one of the old women frowned at the first. “You’re just passing along gossip, Marna. Besides, aren’t they saying that it was the elf who went after him when he went to Weisshaupt? What does that tell you about who the prince prefers to spend his time with in—”

“Remember that there’s a child present,” said the magistrate.

“Now who’s spreading gossip?” the other woman said to the first.

“We can discuss the... rumors... when we return,” said Ser Donatien.

The magistrate gave him a grateful smile.

Ser Ava swung up behind Rósín, who clung tightly to the saddle. “Never been on a horse before, I take it?” the templar asked, sounding slightly amused, but not unkind.

“No, we don’t have horses.”

“You have halla, yes?” Ser Ava gently nudged the sides of the horse under them and started down the path that Rósín had walked earlier. 

“Yes, but they aren’t horses. It’s hard to explain. They aren’t beasts, really, but more like companions.” Rósín felt silly almost correcting the human, especially since she couldn’t really explain the halla’s role properly. “My clan’s halla keeper could explain it much better.” She was quiet for a moment, as Ser Ava only replied with a nod, and then asked, “What’s Orlesian? I mean, that man called all of you Orlesian like my aunt calls humans shemlen. I mean... I mean, not in a nice way.”

To her surprise, Ser Ava chuckled softly behind her. “My men and I aren’t from this country. We’re from a country that borders it to the west, called Orlais. A long time ago, my country once ruled over this one. The occupation was bitter and the resulting war even more so. There’s still a lot of resentment in many Fereldans towards Orlesians, much like some elves resent humans for their treatment throughout history. I daresay much of the bitterness is deserved. Which reminds me... tell me, child, if your clan sees us out here with you, will they attack us?”

Rósín bit her lip as she thought about her reply. It was a difficult question to answer properly or accurately. “I don’t know,” she finally admitted. “It depends on who finds us, I guess.” She hoped it wasn’t her aunt, as her reactions tended to be extreme. Or her mother, now that she thought about it, as these were the humans who hunted and captured mages outside their tower. If they found out that Rósín’s mother and aunt were mages, they might try to take them away forever. 

“Fair enough,” said the templar.

They rode for a while in peace, the templars occasionally chatting to each other in another language, one more musical and less harsh to Rósín’s ears than what she normally heard humans speaking. Then the templars fell silent, exchanging uneasy glances before turning to look into the forest beyond the path. “Magic,” said Ser Donatien.

“Dismount,” said Ser Ava. “And be on your guard. It could be darkspawn or even bandits with an apostate in their employ.”

“Darkspawn? Up this far? I thought the Blight was over,” said Ser Simon.

“They don’t all go immediately underground after the archdemon dies,” Ser Ava replied. “Didn’t you listen to that Warden who came to us from Weisshaupt in Val Royeaux? She warned us to be on the lookout for darkspawn for that very reason. They call it the Thaw.” Then she pulled Rósín off her horse and stood slightly in front of the girl, to protect her from any attackers that might spring out of the forest.

But Rósín knew it wasn’t darkspawn or bandits. The magic felt familiar to her, it spoke of safety and family and home. It was either her mother or her aunt. She hoped, for the sake of everyone, that it was her mother and not Velanna. Her aunt would react too harshly and probably just try to kill these humans—shemlen, to her, all of them, no matter how nice—without talking first. These people had been nice to her and Rósín didn’t want them to die, especially from an overprotective aunt.

“Let the girl go,” said a voice hidden in the trees.

Rósín looked in the direction the voice had come from, relief flooding through her. It was her mother, not her aunt. Everything would be okay. 

“Show yourself, apostate,” said Ser Simon, drawing his sword. 

Seranni appeared from the shadows of the forest, her staff in hand, magic swirling and crackling around her. “I am no apostate, as I am not of your Chantry, human,” she said to Ser Simon. “You have my child. Give her to me and I will let you and your fellow templars go.”

Rósín didn’t like the dark look on her mother’s face. She looked too much like Velanna and not enough like herself. She’d never seen her mother like this before, not even in the darkspawn attack or during the fire last night. “Mamae?” she said hesitantly, wondering if this was really her mother or some sort of impostor.

The Dalish mage graced the child with a smile meant only for her. “It will be okay, _da’len_ ,” she said, her voice gentle and normal and sounding nothing like it had before, when it had addressed the templars. Rósín felt a little better. Then Seranni looked at the templars again, smile gone, angry determination returned. “Now give my daughter to me and we can all go our separate ways in peace.”

Ser Simon glanced back at Rósín, at the other templars, and then at Seranni again. “But you’re an apostate. We can’t just let you go.”

“I don’t know, Simon,” said Ser Ava. “Sure, she’s an apostate, but we’ve got way bigger apostates to catch, so to speak. Remember Morrigan, the maleficar, apparent danger to all of Thedas? In the larger scheme of things, this Dalish woman means nothing to the Chantry and everything to this girl.”

“But,” said Ser Donatien, “... _apostate_. We’re supposed to bring them in.”

“You’re testing my patience,” said Seranni. “Shall I give you a demonstration of my abilities in order to convince you to hand my daughter over?”

“That wouldn’t help your case, my lady,” said Ser Simon, who really looked like he’d rather be anywhere else other than mired in the confrontation.

“And yet you continue to dally.” Seranni conjured a ball of flame in her free, open hand. 

“Where are your hunters?” Ser Ava asked.

“I am alone,” Seranni replied. “The rest of the clan is recovering from the attack from other humans last night, when they tried to burn us out. Once we’ve cleaned up, my clan is leaving this forest. We wish to be without conflict. That includes right now. All I ask is that you give me my daughter and allow me to leave.” She tilted her head to the side, as if she’d just remembered something significant. “Did you say Morrigan?”

Ser Simon gave the elf a funny look. “Yes, we did. Why? Have you seen her?”

“No, I have not,” said Seranni, “but there are rumors, among the Dalish, that she might be hiding within one of our clans in the north. That is all I know.”

“Maker’s blood, she is everywhere and nowhere,” said Ser Donatien. “We might as well bring this one in. We’re never going to find our real quarry. This one would be something.”

“You will not,” said Seranni, flinging the fire to the threatening templar’s feet, igniting a line of flames just in front of him. 

Donatien responded by throwing his arms out to the side, mumbling something under his breath, and then a bolt of white light appeared above Seranni and knocked her to the ground. The impact sent her tumbling down the short incline to the middle of the path. The templar who had summoned that strange power strode forward, sword at the ready, his intent clear.

“Mamae!” Rósín shouted, lunging forward to get to her fallen mother. Ser Ava caught her and held her back. The child started struggling as she had with the man before, but this woman wore plate armor and not ragged clothing. Each hit hurt Rósín instead of the templar and did nothing to break the woman’s grasp on her. “Let me go!”

“It will be okay,” the templar told her, and then glared at the other templar. “Ser Donatien! Stay your hand!”

The templar stopped at the ringing command, glancing back and forth between the mage and his leader. Behind him, Seranni slowly got to her feet, leaning heavily on her staff. Rósín let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding on seeing her mother alive and mostly unhurt.

Then she heard something else from the woods, a guttural cry that brought Rósín back to the night when the darkspawn had attacked her clan, the night her father had died, along with many others. And then those same darkspawn, hissing and howling, poured out from the opposite side Seranni had been on. The horses rose up on their hind legs, the whites of their eyes rolling wildly in panic, whinnied, and galloped away. The templars pulled in close, forming a wall around Rósín, all of them with swords out now, including Ser Ava. 

“No!” Seranni cried, hitting the darkspawn approaching her with her staff. “ Rósín!”

“Mamae!” Rósín tried to see more of her mother through the legs of the templars around her. 

An arrow buried itself in Ser Donatien’s throat and he dropped to the ground with a gurgle. Another templar fell to three tall darkspawn attacking him at once. They dragged him partway off and hacked into him with their rusty swords. Rósín covered her eyes and wished she couldn’t still hear it, the meaty impact of the blades on flesh. An awful, terrible sound. Yet keeping her eyes closed made her more frightened, so Rósín uncovered them. And around her, it was still a nightmare. 

Ser Ava stayed between Rósín and the darkspawn, her sword slicing through legs and arms, thrusting into stomachs and through necks. Her breathing started becoming heavy at the work. Then Ser Simon fell, victim of a bite from a shorter darkspawn and an axe-swing from one of the taller ones. Ser Ava and Rósín had no time to react to the other templar’s death, because Seranni shouted to them from further up the road. They looked as one and saw that the darkspawn were picking her up in their tainted hands, bearing her up above their heads as she struggled. As soon as she struck one down, another appeared in its place.

The other darkspawn pressed in closer to Ser Ava and Rósín. The templar spun in a circle, holding her blade out, and the darkspawn backed off just a little.

“Templar!” Seranni shouted. “Save her!”

Ser Ava and Rósín looked at the Dalish elf again, the darkspawn now actively carrying her away, not killing her as they normally did, as Rósín had always seen. “What are they doing?” Ser Ava said, apparently having learned the same thing that Rósín had.

“Don’t let them take her!” Seranni’s voice had become even more desperate. “You... you know what you have to do, templar. Keep her from them, whatever it takes! You must do what I cannot!”

“I will not let the darkspawn take her. I give you my word,” said Ser Ava.

“Mamae! Mamae!” She tried to get to her mother again, but Ser Ava’s plated arm was wrapped protectively around her.

“ _Ma’arlath_ , Rósín,” said Seranni. “ _Abelas, emma’len_.”

“ _Abelas,_ Mamae?” Why was she sorry? She’d yet to use her magic. She could tear apart these darkspawn, all of them, with the magic she had at her disposal. And then they would be safe, all three of them that were still alive. As the darkspawn continued to carry her mother away, Rósín realized that for some reason, her mother’s magic must be gone. Whatever power that templar had summoned had taken it away. She was defenseless, even her staff out of her hands now. The darkspawn were nearly to the treeline, and then the group would be gone, Seranni with them. “No! Come back!” Rósín yelled, tears falling freely, and without shame.

The darkspawn around them closed in, offering no escape. They would do the same with her and Ser Ava, Rósín realized. They wouldn’t be far behind Mamae, carried through the forest and into the dark tunnels where the darkspawn dwelled.

“Maker forgive me,” Ser Ava said in a strangled voice, pulling Rósín closer with her left arm, the fingers of her right working at the leather grip of her sword. Then her left arm moved away from the child. The girl saw the templar shut her eyes, tears squeezing out and tracking through dust and grime left on her cheeks from the fight. “My Maker, know my heart. Take me from a life of sorrow. Lift me from a world of  pain. Judge me worthy of Your endless pride. And forgive me for what I must do.” Ser Ava opened her eyes, and Rósín saw determination in them, and felt a rush of hope, that this templar’s Maker had granted them a way of escape. Then Ser Ava drew Rósín into a hug with her right arm, sword forgotten, and kissed the top of her head. “I am sorry, child. I wish there was another way,” she whispered. 

Rósín never saw the dagger in the templar’s left hand.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

“With time, the Cult of Andraste spread and grew, and the Chant of Light took form. Sing this chant in the four corners of Thedas, it was said, and the world would gain the Maker’s attention at last. As the Chant of Light spread, the Cult of Andraste became known as the Andrastian Chantry. Those who converted to the Chantry’s beliefs found it their mission to spread Andraste’s word.

There were many converts, including powerful people in the Imperium and in the city-states of what is now Orlais. Such was the power of the Maker’s word that the young King Drakon undertook a series of Exalted Marches meant to unite the city-states and create an empire solely dedicated to the Maker’s will. The Orlesian Empire became the seat of the Chantry’s power, the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux the source of the movement that birth the organized Chantry as we know it today. Drakon, by then Emperor Drakon I, created the Circle of the Magi, the Order of Templars and the holy office of the Divine. Many within the Chantry revere him nearly as equal as Andraste herself.

The modern Chantry is a thing of faith and beauty, but it also a house of necessity, protecting Thedas from powerful forces that would do it harm. Where the Grey Wardens protect the world from Blights, the Chantry protects mankind from itself. Most of all, the Chantry works to earn the Maker’s forgiveness, so that one day He will return and transform the world into the paradise it was always meant to be.”

—from _Tales of the Destruction of Thedas_ by Brother Genitivi, Chantry scholar

**Malcolm**

“ _Falon’Din_ , _emma ir abelas, virinan da’len atisha_ ,” Líadan murmured. She started to say something else, but her throat choked up, and she looked away, blinking rapidly.

Malcolm stood solemnly at the edge of the ditch, now understanding why the soldiers had been so frantic to have him see. He cursed them now, because he wanted to wipe what he saw out of his mind, to scour it away as he wanted for many memories from the Blight. Yes, there were three templar bodies. One was hacked apart so badly that it barely looked human. The two others were little better. Recognizable, but the wounds, either from the battle or after, were gruesome.

And then there was the fourth body. 

He dropped into a crouch, causing some of the loose dirt at the top of the ditch to skitter down the sides. Once, in another lifetime, the body had been a young Dalish elf. Perhaps five or six years old, full of lively fun and towheaded cute innocence. Now she was pale and cold, blood from a single stab wound to the heart staining her roughspun tunic. Her body, however a mercy it could be, was the only one not bitten or otherwise sullied. Malcolm knew this was the girl mentioned earlier. This was Rósín. 

“Maker help us,” Anders said, skidding to a stop behind Malcolm and Líadan.

“Keep Velanna away,” Malcolm managed to say, the image of his dead nephew replacing the little girl’s. And then as he tried to force the memory away, he saw both of them, switching in and out, each of them equally as horrific. Both of them reminding him of why the Maker had turned His back on His people. Both of them reminding him of why he so often got angry at the Maker for sitting wherever he was and doing absolutely _nothing_ while innocent little children like Oren and Rósín died. Had the darkspawn killed her and somehow been respectful of her being a child? Or had the templars killed her? For what reason? Had she been a mage and they’d decided it was better to just kill the apostate over bringing her to the tower? Sadly, the more plausible reason wasn’t the darkspawn at all. That, in of itself, disturbed him deeply, almost giving the Maker good cause to have turned His back. And he felt like crying. Somewhere within him, he’d held onto a small, ridiculous hope that they would be able to save the child. That they would find her somewhere, scared and alone but alive, and bring her home to her clan. 

“No!” came an anguished shout from behind Malcolm, and he knew they hadn’t been able to keep Velanna away after all. Not that he shouldn’t have known better. He would have been—had been—the same with his nephew. “They killed her! The shems killed her!”

Malcolm stood and turned, not sure what he was going to do, but knowing that he had to do something to defuse Velanna. She was already close, fully intent on descending into the ditch and getting her niece’s body. But the bodies in the ditch were tainted, at least the templars’ bodies were, and they couldn’t risk Velanna contracting the taint as well. He and the others could get the child’s body out so she could have a proper burial, as was the Dalish custom, but only if the body was untainted. He held his hands out to stop the Dalish elf, trying to appear as peaceable as possible, but most likely failing. “You can’t go in there,” he said, surprised at how calm he sounded.

“You will step aside and let me retrieve her, _shem_ ,” said Velanna, the epithet a barbed jab.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you,” Malcolm replied, ignoring the slur. Part of him even thought he deserved it, for what the templars might’ve done to the elven girl. “I can’t let you get sick, the—” A fist of earth to the chest cut him off, sending him sailing back across the ditch and into the forest beyond. 

“You killed her!” Velanna yelled at him, her staff now out and her arms moving nearly in a blur as she summoned more magic. “All of you shems, you all killed her! She is dead because of you!” Then she hurled another spell, roots climbing out of the ground to imprison the three soldiers, while tossing a fireball at Anders with her other hand. The human mage barely managed to duck out of the way, looking torn about firing a spell back at the elf once he recovered.

Velanna spun and hit Oghren with lightning, but it barely did more than annoy the dwarf. “Dwarves are resistant to magic,” he said at her surprised expression. “No one tell you that? Thought all mages knew.”

“I did,” said Anders.

A snort of frustration from the Dalish elf, and then another clump of roots burst out of the ground and encased Nathaniel, just as he started to loose one of his arrows. It went wide, embedding itself harmlessly into a tree trunk at shin level. Like the others, Nathaniel also wasn’t ready to try and kill Velanna, not when she’d suffered far too much already.

Malcolm rolled to get his arms under him so he could push himself up. His chest felt oddly constricted and it was harder to breathe than normal. He winced, realizing that meant he probably had broken a rib or two. Small hands helped him stand, and then the person they belonged to helped him remain upright when he started to list sideways. 

“Anytime you’d like to smite her would be great,” Líadan whispered to him. “Preferably before Oghren has to kill her.”

“Right,” he said. He really needed to stop forgetting that ability around beings with magical talents that weren’t darkspawn. As he drew his arms up, Líadan scampered away, just in case something went wrong. Velanna, focused on the magic-resistant Oghren, didn’t notice Malcolm’s preparation. The holy light slammed into the rampaging elf, sending her to the ground in a heap, her staff sliding out of her reach. Malcolm, seeing his work complete and the threat mostly dealt with, dropped back onto the dirt. The roots disappeared from around the soldiers and Nathaniel, and they slumped to the ground as well.

Líadan was instantly next to Velanna, blade point at her throat. “These people are not responsible for Rósín’s death,” she said. “These are good people and you judge them wrongly. These are the very people that will help you catch and punish the ones responsible for Rósín’s death and Seranni’s disappearance. Killing them will only bring anger and judgement on _all_ of the Dalish, not just you, and won’t bring _justice_ to anyone. Do you think for one instant that your niece would want to see her aunt kill innocent people in the name of vengeance for her death?”

Velanna didn’t answer, only reached for the blade held at her throat to move it away.

“Do you?” Líadan repeated, nudging the blade a little closer.

“No.” He couldn’t see them, but Malcolm could hear the threat of tears in the elf’s voice when she finally answered. “Creators, no, she...” and then Velanna’s volume dropped to where Malcolm couldn’t hear.

But Líadan could, and her head snapped back in surprise at what Velanna said. “Did she? That... that helps explain some things. So, perhaps you shouldn’t be so quick to kill Grey Wardens, then. Even humans. Somehow, I doubt she would approve.”

Velanna nodded slightly, and then looked from Líadan to the blade and back again. 

Líadan narrowed her eyes, seeming like she wasn’t quite ready to relinquish her hold over the other elf. “I’m not sure I can trust you,” she said, confirming Malcolm’s suspicion.

“But we are of the same people,” said Velanna, truly shocked that Líadan would distrust her over a bunch of humans.

“You also tried to kill my friends. Again,” Líadan replied.

“ _Shemlen ashin ma’lath_?” 

“Do not speak of that!” Líadan shouted, and then seemed surprised at the vehemence of her reply and lowered her voice. “Ever.”

To everyone’s surprise, Velanna laughed, just a little, and without spite or malice. “ _Ma inan’din_?” She switched to Fereldan when Líadan didn’t react. “Fine. Don’t see. I will speak their language, then. I give you, and everyone else, my word as a Dalish that I will not try to harm any of you again, unless you should outright attack me.”

Líadan peered at her for a moment longer, searching the other elf’s eyes for a hint of dishonesty. But she apparently found none, and fully removed her blade from Velanna’s person. “Fine.”

“I wonder what some of _that_ was about,” said Anders, appearing at Malcolm’s side. “I always feel like I’m missing out on some really good gossip whenever Líadan speaks in Elvish. Seriously, it’s driving me to seriously consider learning the language.”

Malcolm started to shrug, but pain from his chest stopped him halfway. 

“Yeah, I think that fist of earthly doom did in a few of your ribs. No worries, Anders can take care of that little problem.” The mage cast a quick healing spell, and Malcolm’s chest was able to fully expand once again.

“Thanks,” he said, and then slowly stood up. While he and Anders had talked, every else’s gazes had returned to the ditch and its small pile of bodies. His own gaze did the same and he almost preferred the short, violent battle from before over having to deal with the bodies. He sighed and looked over at Anders. “Will you—”

Anders didn’t make him finish the sentence. “Yes.”

The two men slowly walked into the shallow ditch. With booted feet and gauntleted hands, they rolled the templars’ bodies away from the child’s until it was free and clear. Then Anders kicked footholds into the sides of the ditch so Malcolm wouldn’t fall, while Malcolm picked up the small body. In his arms, it weighed barely anything, and in his heart, it weighed more than all of Thedas. As soon as he was visible over the rim of the ditch, Velanna ran towards him and the body he carried. Líadan stepped in front of her, sure-footed and firm, arms going around the other woman and holding her back.

“Let me see her,” Velanna said, trying to push Líadan away.

“You can’t touch her,” said Líadan. “She’s tainted.” Then she frowned and looked at Malcolm, question in her eyes. They had all assumed the girl’s body would have the taint, considering where they’d found it. 

“It’s okay,” Malcolm answered her unspoken question. “She’s actually not tainted.”

Líadan stepped aside and Velanna rushed forward, hurriedly and somehow carefully at the same time, removing the body from Malcolm’s arms. She walked to the opposite side of the path with it before gently placing it on the ground. Deciding the woman needed as much privacy as they could afford her, Malcolm motioned for everyone stop watching. Then he told the three soldiers, “Go fetch the horses and Gunnar.” They nodded and started off in the direction the horses had run when the magic show had begun. He looked back over at the ditch, realizing that at least they had a ready-made pyre for the three tainted templar bodies. With a sigh, he dug the firestarter potion out of one of his belt pouches and walked over to the ditch. Once there, he quietly said a verse from the Chant of Light, since these men were, after all, servants of the Chantry, though trapped as they were by the lyrium. Then he sprinkled the potion on them and the blaze roared into life.

As he tucked the potion back into the pouch, he noticed Velanna giving him a horrified look from across the path. He nearly asked what was wrong, but found he couldn’t, because right now, _everything_ seemed wrong. But she understood his expression and asked, “You... you aren’t going to make me do that with Rósín, are you? You aren’t going to make me give her a shem funeral?”

“No,” Malcolm replied, now even more relieved that the girl’s body hadn’t been tainted. “We only have to burn tainted bodies and darkspawn.”

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” she said. “Thank you.”

He shrugged, not feeling comfortable with telling her ‘you’re welcome’ since it wasn’t anything he’d done that would allow for a Dalish burial. If the child had been tainted, he would’ve insisted her body be burned, and was sure that would’ve caused another uproar. Possibly with more magic from Velanna, but since her word as a Dalish had mostly convinced Líadan of no further violence against them, perhaps not. He wondered if Velanna wanted to do everything for the funeral herself—digging the grave, finding the sapling, filling the grave, planting the sapling. The sun had moved even closer to the horizon and they hadn’t a lot of time. But he didn’t want to push her, either, as she’d already been pushed enough. For Andraste’s sake, the woman had just found out her niece was murdered, either by darkspawn or templars. Yet the lack of time ate at him. Maybe if it got dark, they could try to ride by torchlight since they’d be on the road. Or maybe the mages could even uses their staffs to light the way. Either option felt better than spending the night out here. Especially given with how twitchy Velanna was, not that it wasn’t understandable, but still. It was reality.

“I’ll go see if she’ll let anyone help,” Líadan said quietly from next to him. When had she gotten there? He hadn’t even heard her approach. After he nodded, Líadan walked over to where the other Dalish elf crouched. Malcolm could tell that Líadan still didn’t like Velanna, but now she at least felt some empathy for her. If he was honest, he wasn’t much of a fan of the woman, either, but something like this shouldn’t be wished on anyone. Certainly not a child, and certainly not the child’s family. He understood her reaction of rampaging a little bit more, even if he didn’t approve.

Horse hooves thumped against the packed dirt of the Pilgrim’s Path, and the three soldiers returned, leading the horses, Gunnar trotting alongside them. On seeing Malcolm, the mabari ran over to him, jumping to lick his face. Almost immediately, the dog caught on the the somber mood of his master, and looked to where Malcolm looked. Then the dog trotted carefully over to where Velanna and Líadan crouched near the body of the elven girl. He cast the two elves a sad look, and somehow an even sadder one at the girl. Then he settled down next to the body, sorrowful eyes keeping watch over her, as if he understood. 

Malcolm figured he did.

“He’s a mabari. His name is Gunnar. He is... he is like the halla, at times,” he heard Líadan say to Velanna.The other elf didn’t reply, only continued to regard the dog curiously, but she didn’t object to his actions. “Perhaps we can let him guard Rósín while we dig the grave?” Líadan suggested.

“I...” Velanna was clearly hesitant, and then she took another look at Gunnar. Something, some sort of nonverbal communication passed between them, and Velanna relented. “Yes.”

The soldiers had spades in their kits and handed them over to the elves. They offered to help dig, but Velanna turned them down. While she would use shemlen implements, apparently she would not yet accept their help with physical labor. Malcolm supposed she could only allow so much change in one day. At least she was taking Líadan’s help, however much Líadan didn’t like to be near her, he knew she offered help for the sake of the child. The two women had just started digging when Malcolm felt something tug at the taint. The slight burning made him look south. And then he saw it, there, at the treeline, just above where Velanna and Líadan were. A ghoul. He cursed under his breath. It would be up to the mages or Nathaniel to kill it, if he couldn’t get close enough, as he had no ranged weapons at hand. The crossbows were with the horses, farther away from him than the ghoul was. He moved closer to get a better look. The ghoul had the same _vallaslin_ as Velanna, underneath the mottled, blackened corruption caused by the taint. He could even see they shared some of the same facial structure, and certainly the same silvery-blonde hair color. 

The ghoul didn’t go near them, not at first. Instead, it slowly approached the elven girl’s body, confirming Malcolm’s fears. It had to be Seranni, even in ghoul form able to recognize her daughter’s body. The ghoul took another step and Líadan looked up from her task, the spade falling from her hands as she reached for her staff. Velanna noticed the movement and glanced up as well. At first, her face lit into a smile at seeing her sister, not recognizing the touch of the taint at first. “Seranni!” She started to run forward, and then came to a sudden stop. “Creators, what have they done to you?”

“They made me one of them,” Seranni replied, her voice remarkably clear for a ghoul. 

Malcolm frowned. How was that even possible? Seranni was even more far gone than any other ghoul he’d seen that had been able to speak. More gone than Ruck, than the bandit, than even Tamlen. Líadan seemed to recognize it, too, and shot him an alarmed, confused look. He shrugged, telling her he had no idea, either. The taint practically wafted off this woman. There were no doubts that she was a ghoul. But in addition than that, what was she?

“By my nughumping Ancestors, how is that girl talking?” Oghren asked. 

Anders was near him, and shaken enough by the scene before them that he didn’t mention the implications of Oghren having nugs for ancestors. “I take it that isn’t normal, either?”

“She feels like a darkspawn to me,” said Nathaniel.

Malcolm peered closely at her, reaching out to feel the taint. “She _is_ a darkspawn. She’s right about what she said, then. Somehow, she’s become one of them.”

“Is that how we’ll—” Nathaniel started.

Oghren nudged him in the side and pointed at Velanna and the soldiers, and Nathaniel left off his question for the time being. But Malcolm knew what the question was, because as he stared at this new type of ghoul, he wondered the same thing. Was that how they would end up, if they didn’t take their Calling or fall in battle or die in some stupid, tragic accident? That they could end up one of them, fully aware, fully remembering what they had been in their former lives as humans or dwarves or elves... he shuddered. 

“Aye,” said Oghren, and sipped from his flask. “On the other hand, the sister sounds like she’s pretty nice. And not crazy. I mean, if you can get past the whole ghoul thing.” He screwed the cap back onto the flask and put it away.

“Who did this to you?” Velanna asked her sister.

“He called himself the Architect,” the ghoul answered, but her eyes had drifted away from Velanna’s intense gaze and toward Rósín’s body again. She walked towards it once more, Gunnar observing her warily. Just before she got within arm’s reach, he jumped to his feet and backed away, but he didn’t stop watching her. The dog knew who Seranni was, Malcolm realized. Seranni dropped to her knees and extended a corrupted hand over the girl’s body, hovering just over the child’s uncorrupted skin. Continuing to hover, she moved her hand up and over Rósín’s peaceful face. Her palm and fingers curved, as if she desperately wanted to touch her daughter one last time, but knew that she would taint her if she did. And if she tainted her, then the girl wouldn’t have a proper Dalish burial. Seranni closed her milky-white eyes and bowed her head. Malcolm thought he saw the faint glint of a tear coursing on the corrupted skin of her cheek, but he couldn’t be sure from this distance. 

Then the ghoul stood up, opening her eyes and looking over to where the pyre blazed. “They saved my daughter,” she said. “They saved Rósín.”

“What?” said Velanna. “Are you talking about the shems? How? They _killed_ her. She is untainted, sister, with only a single stab wound. That is not the work of the darkspawn. The shems did not save her. They killed her themselves!”

Seranni turned and faced her sister. “I asked her to, so the darkspawn couldn’t take Rósín. The darkspawn were already taking me away and the templar was next to her. She did it for me. She saved her from the darkspawn.”

“Maker’s mercy,”said one of the soldiers.

“It seems it might have been,” Nathaniel told them.

Velanna took a few steps closer to her sister. “Seranni, what happened? You left to find Rósín and neither of you came back. You were gone for weeks.”

“I found her near here, on this road, only a few hours after I left.” The ghoul held a hand out toward the path. “A group of templars had her, but I don’t know why. I didn’t have a chance to ask. Some of them called me an apostate and wanted to take me, but one of them argued to give Rósín back to me and leave. One got impatient and drew his sword and I used fire to warn him and... another hit me with something powerful, almost like magic, and then I couldn’t use my magic. He was going to kill me and the female templar stopped him. But then the darkspawn attacked us all. They took me away, they took the woman templar away, killed the men.”

“Rósín?”

“After the rest of the other templars had fallen and the darkspawn surrounded her and Rósín, the lady templar did as I asked—as I was being carried away—and saved my daughter from our fate.” She looked at the child’s body, and then back at Velanna. “They never got her.”

“If the Architect had you, how did you get here?” Líadan asked.

“The ceiling collapsed in the ruins that connected to... what is it the dwarves call them? The Deep Roads. I was on the other side and I was able to escape.” Her eyes flickered briefly toward the forest. “Except I can never escape. I am... I am one of them. I hear it, Velanna. It’s so... there are no words to describe the song in any language I know. Beautiful doesn’t do it justice. It’s far more than that. And yet... it is nothing without her, without my daughter. And now I cannot even touch her, because my touch alone will corrupt her forever, even though she has entered the Beyond. I want nothing more than to be with her, even as it Calls me.”

But she couldn’t, not with the taint. Malcolm’s eyes reluctantly looked at the girl’s body, somehow seeing a parallel between this situation and the darkspawn finding the sleeping Old God. Something so beautiful to them they were compelled to find it, and when they found it, they wanted to touch its beauty, only to end up corrupting it and making it like them, ruining that precious beauty they’d long sought after. “What Calls you? Do you know its name?” he asked the ghoul. He wanted to know if it was Urthemiel that Called to them, but he couldn’t use the name outright, as that would be too much of a leading question.

“The Architect calls them the Old Gods, but he does not know what they truly are. They seek to be free of their imprisonment, and they call to whoever hears to free them. But it is only the darkspawn who hear, so as soon as they are found and released, they are tainted and turned into monsters. Into things like me.”

“You are not a monster,” Velanna told her. 

“There is so much darkness in me that I cannot even touch my daughter’s body, sister,” Seranni replied. “I cannot escape the truth.” Then she looked back to Malcolm. “And I do not wish to... escape this place. I will not flee. Help me. I know that you understand. I can feel it in you, Grey Warden.”

Velanna spun to look accusingly at Malcolm. “What is she talking about, shem?”

“Your sister is a ghoul,” Líadan answered before anyone else could, surprising Malcolm. “The corruption cannot be cured. Anything she touches will become tainted and begin to corrupt. Wherever she goes, she will carry the taint. Wherever she treads, she leaves the Blight sickness behind. This normally happens when someone is bitten by a darkspawn or somehow ingests their blood. You either die from the illness painfully and slowly or you become a ghoul. One of them.”

“The song,” said Seranni. “The song in my head. It hasn’t stopped Calling and it only gets stronger. Even now, it crescendoes, it beckons even as I stand here with you, with my daughter.”

Malcolm glanced over at Líadan, saw the lancing pain of a memory caused by the echoes of words her friend Tamlen had once said as a ghoul, before it tried to kill her. Her fingers curled into fists at her side, knuckles white, but she stared resolutely forward, unwilling to give in. 

“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” said Velanna.

Líadan didn’t supply an answer. She bit her lip as soon as it started to tremble, and then turned and walked to the edge of the forest, her back to the rest of them. 

Malcolm watched her for a moment then looked at Velanna. “Seranni wants us to kill her. It’s what Grey Wardens norm—”

Velanna leapt at him, not that he was surprised. “You will not kill her!”

He stepped aside and Nathaniel was there, wrapping his arms around the elf to keep her from harming them or herself. She fought the rogue, aiming kicks and elbows to tender areas, but he kept managing to avoid them. “No one is going to harm you,” Nathaniel said.

“I’m not the one I’m worried about!” Velanna went for another vicious kick.

Líadan spun back around, shakiness gone, leaving only anger and stubbornness in its wake. “There’s nothing you can do for her!” she yelled as she strode to face off with the other elf. “Nothing. She is already dead, and yet somehow she still walks around as if she is not. She wants your help to enter the Beyond and yet you deny her. Who are you to deny her rest? You hold on because you cannot bear to think that she will have entirely passed on because of what you encouraged her to do. That is your fault and something you must live with. That is your punishment, not hers. She has already lost her daughter. She has already lost what it means to be _elvhen._ Let her go so that she may recover what she’s lost.”

Velanna’s shoulders drooped slightly, and Nathaniel used that as his cue to safely release her. He moved away quickly, lest she decide to exact revenge anyway. But she stood still, staring at Líadan. Reeling, Malcolm knew, at the words Líadan had beaten her with, because Seranni hadn’t denied a single one of them. A moment passed, and another, and then Velanna nodded almost imperceptibly to Líadan before turning to Malcolm. “Let me do it.”

“You can’t touch her,” he said.

“I know.” Velanna slowly faced Seranni, who gazed at her with milky-white eyes filled with teary gratitude. 

“ _Ma serannas_ , sister,” Seranni said before glancing down at Rósín one last time. “ _Ma’arlath, emma’len._ ”

“ _Emma ir abelas,_ Seranni. _Dareth shiral_ ,” said Velanna. Then a green aura crackled around her hand and she flicked her wrist. A root sprang up from the ground and plunged into Seranni’s chest, through her heart. As the root lowered, it lowered Seranni’s body, mere feet away from Rósín’s, but never touching, even in death. 

The roots detached from the earth and whatever had touched the ghoul remained above, ready to be burned. Malcolm looked away from the scene to find that Líadan had resumed digging the child’s grave, unwilling to watch something she’d gone through herself. He couldn’t blame her. After studying her sister’s body for a long moment, Velanna turned to Malcolm. “Do what you have to,” she said. “Burn her body with the others. I will plant two saplings over Rósín. One for the child, and one for her mother.” Then she disappeared into the woods, unable to watch her sister suffer through a shemlen funeral rite, even though it was the only way.

Nathaniel stepped forward and helped Malcolm move the body and place it into the makeshift pyre. The roots followed quickly after. Then they stood uneasily by the burning ditch, neither of them sure of what to do until Velanna got back. Líadan stood up, searching for Velanna, apparently done with the grave. She shot a look in Malcolm’s direction, but when he met her gaze, she quickly broke it. He sighed and shifted his weight. The uncomfortable silence continued until Velanna returned, a tiny sapling held in each hand. She gave each of the humans a curious look before shrugging and depositing the saplings next to the open grave. Then she headed straight back into the forest, earning a confused glance from the others. 

Líadan noticed. “She’s gone to get an oak stave and a cedar branch,” she said, but offered no additional explanation for it, either assuming they knew the reasoning or not caring if they did. After another moment, she went over to where Gunnar lay next to the elven girl’s body. She knelt next to him, hand buried in the fur just behind his collar. The dog moved his massive head over to rest on Líadan’s foot. She smiled down at him, and then let go of the fur before picking up Rósín’s body and carrying it over to the grave. Gunnar followed her there, ever vigilant. As she moved, Malcolm and the other Wardens walked closer, the fire in the ditch dwindling down to nothing but ashes. The accelerant in the potion had done its job, and the bodies were off to their Maker and Creators.

Once at the grave, Líadan gently placed the body into it, reaching down to straighten an errant piece of hair that had fallen across the girl’s face. She murmured something Malcolm couldn’t hear, and then stepped back, looking expectantly at the treeline. Velanna emerged seconds later, the predicted oaken staff and cedar branch in her hand. The items were placed into the grave, cradled in the arms of the child. Velanna gently touched the girl’s forehead, whispered something, and bowed her head. Then she was backing away, hands casting about for one of the spades. She nodded to Líadan, and together, they filled in the grave. When it was nearly done, Velanna put her spade down and took up the saplings, holding each of them in place while Líadan filled in the dirt around them. Once they could stand on their own, Velanna spoke in broken words as she worked, hands patting down the earth around the saplings. “ _In uthenera na revas_ ,” came Velanna’s last whisper. Tears mixed with the dirt, a final benediction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish Translations:
> 
> -Líadan: “Falon’din, emma ir abelas. Virinan da’len atisha.”  
> “Falon’din, I am filled with sorrow. Guide this little child to peace.”
> 
> -Velanna: “Shemlen ashin ma’lath?”  
> “The shemlen man you love?”  
> “Ma inan’din?”  
> “You don't see?”
> 
> -Velanna: “In uthenera na revas.”  
> “In waking sleep is freedom.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

“The current Age was not meant to be the Dragon Age. Throughout the last months of the Blessed Age, the Chantry was preparing to declare the Sun Age, named for the symbol of the Orlesian Empire, which at that time sprawled over much of the south of Thedas and controlled both Ferelden and what is now Nevarra. It was to be a celebration of Orlesian imperial glory.

But as the rebellion in Ferelden reached a head and the Battle of River Dane was about to begin, a peculiar event occurred: a rampage, the rising of a dreaded high dragon. Dragons had been thought practically extinct since the days of the Nevarran dragon hunts, and they say that to see this great beast rise from the Frostbacks was both majestic and terrifying. As the rampage began and the high dragon decimated the countryside in its search for food, the elderly Divine Faustina II abruptly declared the Dragon Age. 

Some say the Divine was declaring support for Orlais in the battle against Ferelden, since the dragon is an element of the Dufayel family heraldry of King Meghren, the so-called Usurper-King of Ferelden. Be that as it may, the high dragon’s rampage turned towards the Orlesian side of the Frostback Mountains, killing hundreds and sending thousands more fleeing to the northern coast. The Fereldan rebels won the Battle of River Dane, ultimately securing their independence. 

Many thus think that the Dragon Age will come to represent a time of violent and dramatic age for all of Thedas. It remains to be seen.”

—from _The Studious Theologian_ by Brother Genitivi, Chantry scholar, 9:25 Dragon

**Malcolm**

A dream tore at him as he slept. 

_A flash of golden eyes, a toss of raven-black hair, a knowing smirk—the roar of an awakened dragon, and then she was gone. The dragon flew lazily through the darkening sky, the last remnants of sunlight catching on its iridescent maroon scales. As the sun kissed the horizon, more dragons as fetchingly beautiful as the first took to the air. Masses of humans below fell to their knees in worship at the display of ancient power and beauty. A sliver of light caught the eyes of the dragons and they glinted golden as they looked at him, looked into him, and he heard an old woman’s cackling_ —

Malcolm woke up.

He remained absolutely still in his bed, only his eyelids having fluttered open, and he was facing the wall opposite the bed. The ring was there, on the desk. Fiona had asked him to keep it for a while, maybe wear it to see if it made a difference. He stared at it in the sliver of moonlight. An alien thing, an ancient thing, a symbol of what he had been unable to stop. 

_“Tis not given out of sentimentality. I believe you are too important to risk.”_ That’s what she’d told him, when he’d teased her about her true reasons behind giving him the ring. But he hadn’t believed her, had thought he’d seen something warm, something akin to love or caring or _some_ thing behind those golden eyes. Another mention of sentimentality on his part gained him only another vague answer. _“I have no desire to see us part company so soon.”_ And yet, looking back, not so vague at all. She had told him the truth and he had seen only what he wished to see. He was too important to die because he was to be her pawn later on, right before they confronted the archdemon. She didn’t wish them to part company so soon because then she wouldn’t be there to make her play for the Old God’s soul. No sentimentality there, only practicality. He’d been a means to an end that hadn’t cooperated. 

A cloud covered the moon outside and the ring fell into the dark shadow of night. Had Eamon been right? Had he been entirely played, fooled as only a young man could be fooled into thinking he was in love? He sat up in the bed, feet dangling off the side, hands on either side of him and flat against the warm mattress. The moonlight returned and the ring drew his eyes again. He planted his feet on the cold floor and stood up. Then he took the scant steps over to the desk, fingers outstretched toward the ring. They brushed against it hesitantly, as a nervous young man would the lips of his first kiss. When nothing happened, he picked it up, holding it between thumb and forefinger, and brought it more fully into the moonlight. Two lines wove around the entire band, sometimes woven together, sometimes entirely separate. Two lives that came together at times, and then separated, only to be brought back together again. 

_“I was foolish. We were foolish. This could have been so much easier, yet I... cannot regret what was between us, no matter that it came to this. I will always remember you, my love.”_

He wondered if she remembered him, as he did her. Or was she reminded only of Zevran now, as she carried his child? Perhaps she thought only of the Antivan, or perhaps none of them at all, focusing only on her purpose, her goal, of having a child with the soul of an Old God. A creature—would it even be human?—of untold, unknown power. Were it to follow normal human and elf pairings, it would look entirely human. And if Malcolm and Alistair’s experience at being the child of a human and an elf were any indication, there wouldn’t be much of Zevran in the child at all. Perhaps bits of personality, perhaps something about the eyes. Malcolm didn’t resemble Fiona at all, and Alistair, only a little, in the eyes. Even then, his eyes were much lighter than Fiona’s, and everything else was entirely Maric. Or perhaps that was something about Maric and the Theirin line. Cailan had resembled their father, and by accounts, Maric had greatly resembled his mother Moira. Well, the Rebel Queen’s hair had been red, not blonde. But both Alistair and Malcolm had red in their hair, Malcolm tending more toward red than his brother. His didn’t lighten much in the summer, nothing like Alistair’s did. Given enough time spent outdoors in the summer and it was shocking how much Alistair resembled Maric and Cailan. 

Morrigan’s child with Zevran would look like Morrigan, Malcolm suspected. Pale, flawless skin, raven-black hair, just the right blush in the cheeks, and those captivating, mysterious golden eyes. By all accounts, the child would be beautiful. And _dangerous_. And... not his. His choice, he knew,as he’d been unwilling to accept the responsibility of fathering a child that would have the soul of an Old God. A rueful smile came to his lips, that Morrigan’s offer might’ve been his only chance to have a child of his own. Being a Grey Warden, the chances of another were slim. That, and for him to even consider it, it required moving on from Morrigan, and he didn’t quite know if he had or could. Maybe, in time. This reluctance made no sense to him. She had left him, she had betrayed him, and yet he couldn’t shake her. He couldn’t shake what he felt, but he knew there were feelings more than just friendship that he felt when he looked at or thought about another woman in his life. He should feel excited, not guilty, that someone like her could feel anything for him, and that he felt anything in return. But he couldn’t allow himself to explore any of that with her until he knew what would be done about Morrigan. Until he knew, for certain, that when he found Morrigan, he wouldn’t try to stay at her side.

He dropped the ring into the palm of his left hand, fighting a ridiculous urge to laugh, and another equally as ridiculous urge to cry. He was an idiot, as Fergus had told him. In the now, in the _present_ , and as a constant in his life, was a wonderful woman who, if he allowed them the chance, would never leave him, and would never betray him. The question was—would he do that to her? If he gathered his courage and just _went_ with it, even as much as it terrified both of them, what would happen later, when he finally saw Morrigan again? 

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know until he saw her again and looked into her eyes and found the truth within them. All he had now were his memories and he couldn’t trust them. But he knew that he had to be willing to face them and his emotions, or it would forever remain a mystery. He would forever remain on hold, waiting to find out what he was supposed to do, what was proper to feel. 

Malcolm slipped the ring onto his finger.

_Northwest._ _A glimpse of trees, an ancient forest, a flash of grey fur. A feeling of desperation, of the frantic need for escape. The forest again, the snarl of a wolf, the growl of a wolf standing upright, balanced on two legs, using arms like a human. Weaving between trees, wood carved into bows, a campfire, the sound of children’s laughter. A warm, friendly voice._ Andaran atish’an, falon. _A feeling of relief, the slight ebbing of panic. Yet the panic remained underneath, ever-present. Then the roar of a dragon and the panic is screaming—_

He quickly removed the ring and placed it back on the desk with shaking hands. More dragons. That couldn’t be good. And what was with the wolves standing upright? Had those been werewolves? Was what he just saw and felt a projection of his unconscious mind trying to make sense of what he’d heard Merren say days ago, or was it something else? He wasn’t sure if he should dare hope that it had been a hint of Morrigan’s location. That maybe she was with whatever clan it had been that Merren had mentioned. Up in... where had he said? The Sedim Forest? He hadn’t recognized that name, but he _had_ recognized the Planasene Forest. That was up near Cumberland, just east of it and just southeast of the start of the Vimmark Mountains.

And then there had been more Elvish. Fiona wasn’t fluent, he didn’t think, besides, it could be awkward to ask her. He knew one other person who was fluent who he could trust, and she was the only person he couldn’t speak to about this. There was Velanna, but he didn’t trust her, nor was she a Warden. Not yet. He scowled. Riordan wanted her to become a one, Malcolm was sure.

They’d arrived back at the Vigil a couple days ago, Velanna in tow, all of them somber. On meeting the Warden Commander, Velanna had immediately announced her intentions of becoming a Warden. Riordan had set aside the discussion for the time being, as it had been late, and they needed some time to recover from their trip. The next day, after they relayed the entirety of their story to Riordan, his eyes had been mulling over Velanna’s skills. They were, without a doubt, undeniable. Malcolm figured even Morrigan would’ve been impressed with the elf’s abilities with nature, though most likely wouldn’t have liked her attitude. He certainly didn’t appreciate it, nor did Líadan, as much as they both sympathized with Velanna’s situation. Yet he had a feeling Riordan was looking past all of that—pragmatically, and rightfully so, Malcolm supposed—and at Velanna’s potential. He sighed. Yes, he’d have to talk to Riordan later that day.

Malcolm left the ring on the desk, too wary to even slip it onto the thong around his neck as he’d done before Fiona had worked on it. A few hours were left to the night, and the chance to sleep in a real bed was too precious to waste. This time, once asleep, there were no dreams.

In the morning, he left the room without the ring. Halfway down the hall, he came to a stop, sighed, and returned to fetch it. While he wouldn’t wear it on his finger, not after whatever emotions and visits and weirdness he’d felt last night, he would at least keep it with him. Leaving the ring unattended made him feel nervous and even guilty. What if it was stolen? There were guests in the Vigil, Amaranthine soldiers, magistrates, villagers, and accused criminals, all waiting to be seen in the arl’s court they had scheduled for that afternoon. Seneschal Varel had held it off for as long as he could, but as arl, Riordan held the right of justice in the arling, and those matters had to be decided. Preferably before Arl Eamon and Alistair came back to the Vigil. Besides, Malcolm had heard rumors, though he hadn’t time to fully investigate it, that one of the prisoners had been brought from a village near the Wending Wood and stood accused of kidnapping. It could be another one of the links they were looking for in getting the full story about what happened to Velanna’s niece and sister. Or it could be nothing at all related to the Dalish in the Wending Wood.

Though, Malcolm realized, pausing as he chewed his bread in the dining hall, they still needed to find out exactly what Velanna had done to get herself exiled. That would give them a pretty good insight about whether they should honor her request to become a Warden or find a Dalish clan that would attend to the matter of justice for what she’d done. Though, his argument was still that they shouldn’t allow her to join the order. She was twitchy and that made him jumpy. He nearly laughed as he remembered that once he’d thought Leliana had been crazy, with all her talk about visions sent from the Maker. Now, though, he realized he’d been wrong. _Velanna_ was crazy. Leliana had just been... inspired. 

“What are you smiling about?” Líadan asked, smirking in amusement as she plopped into the place across from him at the table. 

And just at hearing Líadan’s voice, his smile got wider, though he would’ve denied it if pressed. “Oh, just that once I thought Leliana had been crazy and that I think I was wrong.” 

She swirled her spoon around in her bowl of porridge. “No, she was crazy.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Really? You think so? Even when comparing her to, say, I don’t know... Velanna?”

Líadan scowled at the mention of the other Dalish elf. Then she shrugged, as if in acceptance. “Even then. I mean, you’re talking about someone who used to _sing_ in combat.”

“She did that because she was a bard. To inspire us, or something. At least that’s what she told me when I asked.” Statement finished, he shoveled the last of his eggs into his mouth. 

“Whatever the reason, the fact remains that she sang songs while _killing_ people. That’s a bit crazy, if you ask me. Did I mention that she sang quite well while she did it? Sounded all in tune and pretty and such? Not normal.”

“Not normal doesn’t necessarily mean crazy, you know. After all, we’re not normal, and we’re not crazy.”

Líadan lifted an eyebrow.

“If you ask me,” said Oghren, setting a heaping plate of food onto the table before dropping to sit on the bench next to Malcolm, “you’re both a few columns short of a hall. If you’d just have a roll, it would all be so much easier. Get rid of the tension. For everyone, by the way.” He looked back and forth between the two of them. “What? Stop looking at me like that. I’m just saying what I’m sure everyone else is thinking.” He produced a flask and placed it on the table next to his plate. “So what were you two talking about, anyway?”

“We were trying to decide who was more crazy, Leliana or Velanna,” Malcolm said, unable to look at Líadan, which forced him to look at Oghren. Looking at Oghren while he was eating, which meant seeing chewed-up food in Oghren’s mouth and flecks of food and globs of gravy falling out and sticking in his beard. Maybe the embarrassment wasn’t so bad after all.

“Ha!” said Oghren, crumbs flying. “The new girl is cracked like a glass floor, I tell you, but she’s not so bad.” He took a swig of ale and nodded toward Líadan. “Then again, you and her are a lot alike, my elven friend.”

Líadan’s eyebrow lifted dangerously high, a dare for Oghren to continue. “Oh?”

Of course, the dwarf continued, oblivious or willfully ignorant. Malcolm suspected that at this point, it was willing ignorance. “Sure. Dalish and a mage and a b—”

“Think on your next words carefully before you say them, dwarf,” Líadan said, interrupting Oghren. “Remember, my dagger is razor sharp and requires no application of magic in order to to remove your manhood.”

Oghren noisily swallowed the food in his mouth. “Not alike at all!”

“I think Riordan means to let her become a Warden,” said Malcolm.

“We’ve all seen what she can do, so there’s no denying she could be a fine addition,” Oghren replied, waggling his thick eyebrows. “A _fine_ addition indeed, if you know what I’m saying. Not that I’ve got a strange fondness for the crazies, Branka being any indication.”

Malcolm pushed his plate away and stood up. “I’m going to go find Riordan.”

Líadan stole a muffin off Oghren’s plate and got to her feet as well. “I’m coming with you.”

Oghren looked at each of them, and then burped loudly. “I’m staying right here. I’ve my breakfast to finish, even without your help, elf. And if you ask me, if you two are going off together anywhere, it should be for a tumble. Take my advice, my young friends, and you’ll feel much better. Certainly better after that than after some sodding argument with the Commander that you’re bound to lose anyway. Riordan’s more stubborn than a duster at a Proving.”

“Too bad you weren’t asked, dwarf,” said Líadan. “Mind your own business.”

Oghren gave her a good leer, as only he could do. “Well, if you’re getting all bothered by it, since your business isn’t getting taken care of properly, I could certainly give you a good tussle.”

Líadan gave the dwarf a cold glare then strode away, Oghren grinning after her retreating backside. Malcolm moved as if to follow, but gaped back at Oghren when he heard him start laughing. “You think that was funny? One day, you’re going to wake up a soprano and everyone will just tell you they told you so, and then die laughing as you wail about your missing man parts.”

“You need to do something about that woman or someone more threatening than Oghren the Ladykiller is going to sweep her up,” Oghren said, ignoring the warning yet again. “You want my advice?”

“No,” said Malcolm, really wanting to talk about something else. Anything else. Maybe even the archdemon. Yes, the archdemon seemed much less daunting.

“Too bad, I’m giving it anyway. Whatever you had with the witch during the Blight? It was something, I’ll give you that. But you need to face up to the fact that she’s gone, as gone as Branka was when she up and left to go after that Anvil. To the witch, there is something far more important than you that she’s focused on, and judging by the lengths of betrayal she went through to get it, I doubt she will let you interfere, even if it’s merely your continued presence should you ever find her again. So take it from old Oghren here, who’s been through it already—let it go. Live your life, such as it is, all twenty-nine or twenty-eight or whatever odd years you have left. Remember what you had fondly, drink to forget the betrayal, and move on.” Oghren burped again. “Or was it drink to forget everything? I can never keep it straight.”

Malcolm gave Oghren an odd look. The words had sounded almost deep, something surprising considering it was Oghren, of all people. “I’ll think about it.”

“Act, don’t think! Thinking just gets you into trouble.”

“If not thinking kept you out of trouble, don’t you imagine you’d be in a lot less of it?” 

“Don’t you be thinking you’re going to trick _me_ into thinking, boy,” said Oghren. “Now go away, before I actually start to think.”

Chuckling, Malcolm left the dwarf behind and headed for Riordan’s study. While the thought of a roll or tussle or whatever someone would call it with his fetching friend sounded pleasant, he knew it wasn’t all he wanted were he to act. He didn’t want something empty or fleeting, he wanted something real. He wanted what he’d thought he’d had with Morrigan, if something like that truly could exist. The chuckles disappeared in favor of a scowl. He needed to finish seeing to the things around here, to Kal’Hirol and Highever and the Mother and the Architect and what seemed like five hundred other things before he could search for Morrigan and answers. And with whatever he’d seen and felt when he’d put on the ring, it seemed he had more clues to go on. Either that or he was giving himself false hope. One or the other. But, he did need to tell Riordan about the dreams, especially the parts that involved dragons. Since, after all, high dragons and the Old Gods and the darkspawn and the archdemons were pretty much steeped in high dragons, along with other creepy, deathly doom-type things.

He heard the yelling before he even turned the corner. Líadan had arrived before him, then, and already lit into poor Riordan. “You can’t be serious about this,” she cried. “Velanna is a risk. She’s a liability. She’s short-tempered, prejudiced, and incredibly sodding dangerous!”

“You can’t think of anything nice to say about her, can you?” Riordan asked in his ever-calm tone of voice.

“Those _were_ the nice things,” Líadan answered.

Malcolm opened the door and stepped inside, making sure to close the door before he spoke. “Actually, I think those were the nicest things she’s ever said about her.”

Líadan threw him a look that was half-glare and half-exasperation.

Riordan sighed. “And I take it you disagree with allowing her to join, as well?”

“Yes, I do,” said Malcolm, sitting in one of the chairs in front of the commander’s desk. “I would’ve said pretty much what Líadan said, too. Except probably not as nicely. Plus, Velanna _hates_ me.”

“You once thought the same of someone else.” Riordan shot a pointed look at Líadan. “Turns out she doesn’t.” Líadan snorted and he amended, “Well, most of the time.”

“To be fair, Velanna hates all humans, not just you, Malcolm,” Líadan told him, and then turned to Riordan. “That’s the whole prejudiced thing I was talking about. She doesn’t trust humans. Any humans. Aside from that, she was exiled, and we still don’t know what for. It takes something... pretty bad for someone to be expelled from their clan, much less formally exiled. Like we told you before, we ran into some members of her clan on our way back from the Wending Wood. Even after hearing that others with Velanna had died, they still rejected her as a clanmate. They didn’t invite her to rejoin the clan. It’s practically unheard of. Even if you leave to join another clan for a bondmate, or even for some reason leave to live in a human city, you can always go back. Velanna can’t, and her clanmates even made doubly sure that she knew it.”

Malcolm wondered if Líadan could go back to her own clan. His gaze wandered from Riordan to the elf, and he saw that she was already looking at him. She easily caught the question he wanted to pose, but didn’t play along. “What?” she asked, a verbally aggressive challenge to get him to back down from the question, her eyebrows falling into a glare.

He met her challenge. “Can you return to your clan?”

She sat back in her chair, arms folding across her armored chest. “I suppose. If I wanted.” Her eyes darted to the window. “I don’t know if I wish to. They did cast me out.”

“No, you were conscripted, not cast out,” Malcolm said. “You weren’t exiled.”

“It felt like it.” She took a deep breath and returned her gaze to him. “And sometimes, it still does, even now.” The elf held up a hand to stop Malcolm’s objection. “I know. It was for my own good. I was sent away so that I could be cured of the illness brought by the taint, so that I wouldn’t die. As an added bonus, I lost everything I’d ever known and was thrown into the Wardens against my will. Don’t be surprised that it would still hurt, even after all this time.”

Malcolm looked away, pulling at the fraying edges of the gambeson under his heavy chainmail.“You don’t have a monopoly on that kind of pain.”

“I know that!” she snapped. 

“Whatever Velanna’s status is with her former clan or her feelings about humans, she’s undeniably skilled,” said Riordan, steering the conversation back on topic and away from the danger-fraught subject of the two younger Wardens’ conscriptions. “Her hatred of the darkspawn for what they did to her sister is a strength, in this instance. It can be put to good use instead of allowed to fester. _She_ can be put to good use instead of handed over to the Dalish, if that’s even possible. If not...” he trailed off and shrugged. “If the Dalish wouldn’t hear her case, I would have to hear it, or Fergus would. Maybe even Alistair. But that’s academic, as I’m going to let her join.”

“You still don’t even know what she did to get exiled!” Líadan shouted, rising to her feet. “There’s any number of horrific things she could have done! What if she killed children? What if she—”

The door opened. Malcolm cursed to himself in his head. Knowing people around this place, he should’ve known better and locked it. Velanna, apparently having no better manners than the rest of them, strode into the room in her proud and haughty manner. “I am no child killer. You know, if you want to know what happened, I will tell you,” she said. “All you had to do was ask.” She sat on the bench near the window, but didn’t relax her body one bit.

“Oh, you heard me, did you?” said Líadan.

“I think everyone in the Fade heard you,” Malcolm told her, without a prior thought given to his safety. She fired him a venomous glare, far worse than what Velanna was giving him, or had _ever_ given him, if he thought about it. “Right, shutting up now.” Archdemon was looking even better. At this point, given the choice between a nice, jaunty battle with a tainted Old God or remaining in this small, enclosed space with two angry Dalish elves who also happened to be mages? Nice jaunty battle it was. He glanced over at Riordan, who still remained seated, entirely unperturbed, behind his desk. For the love of the Maker, how was that man so calm? Not the slightest hint of worry or concern for his own safety. Of course, this was the same man who blew off the rumors of conspiracies against his life, so Malcolm knew he really shouldn’t have been surprised. 

“Yes, I heard you,” Velanna said to Líadan. “And I felt I should make sure you and everyone else knew that I would never hurt a child.” She studied Líadan carefully. “Do you really think I would harm a child?”

“No,” Líadan immediately answered. “I just... well, that’s the first horrible thing that popped into my head. I think because of recent events. I apologize.”

Malcolm figured she wouldn’t be attempting to kill any child with the soul of an Old God anytime soon. He wondered if he could—and knew instantly that he could not, no matter what the danger. If it _looked_ like a child, sounded and acted like a babe, he wouldn’t be able to do it. It wasn’t in him, no more than he could kill a woman with child. He wondered if the templars could do it. He suppresed a shudder, realizing that they probably could. And most likely, they planned on it when they found Morrigan, having officially named her a maleficar.

“That’s good to know, I suppose, that you don’t truly think that of me,” said Velanna, who then primly folded her hands in her lap. “As for my exile... the humans near the Wending Wood, from shemlen town of Navan, they were trying to drive my clan away. Then they tried to burn us out. They would have destroyed the entire forest just to keep us from their farms. The night they set the forest near our campsite on fire was when we lost Rósín. When morning dawned, and Seranni and I learned that she was missing, I told Seranni to go look for her right away, to not bother taking any hunters. Once we had finished dousing the last flames and could see what the farmers had wrought against us, I saw that the others were afraid. They were too afraid to even help find Seranni and Rósín. Ilshae was convinced Seranni would return, her child in tow, and then we would depart the Wending Wood. She expected us to bow and scrape and then run away from the shemlen threats with our tails between our legs! We waited for days for Seranni to return, but she never did, and I became convinced that she and my niece had been kidnapped by the traders we occasionally saw on the Pilgrim’s Path. I wanted to get even.”

“We knew about the getting even part,” Líadan said.

Velanna ignored her. “Keeper Ilshae said that if I wanted to fight the shemlen, then I would fight them alone. I think....” she trailed off with a sigh and looked down. “I think Ilshae expected me, _wanted_ me, to back down.” Velanna looked up again, giving the others a small, self-deprecating smile. “But I was too proud and too angry. Plus, I called Ilshae a coward.” Then the smile twisted and fell away. “And I turned away from the clan, before Seranni had even returned. I would fight the shemlen and I would find my niece and sister. A few others wanted what I wanted and followed me. They are dead now, killed by the darkspawn in their ruse.” The Dalish elf stood up and braced her arms on either side of the window, staring outside. “And you know what happened with the templars and my niece.”

“No, we don’t,” said Malcolm. Not everything. He knew there was still more left to that story. There was the time between the fire, when the girl had gone missing from the clan, and then later when Seranni had found her with the templars, that had yet to be explained. As much as he disliked templars, he did remember that his brother had been one, and had Alistair come across a lost Dalish child, he’d have tried to bring her home. As angry as templars made him, he had to remember that they weren’t all bad, even if they were all out hunting Morrigan. Because, pretty much, at this point, if he hated everyone out hunting Morrigan, that meant hating practically all of Thedas, including himself.

Velanna spun around and glared at him. “Yes, you do! They kidnapped her and took her away! Creators know what they were going to do with her before they were all killed by the darkspawn.”

“Take her to the Tower, most likely,” Riordan said. “Or to the Chantry, if she turned out not to have magical talent. While I’m not a fan of templars myself, it stands to reason that they didn’t kidnap the child. Didn’t you say she was lost? They could just have found her and were taking her somewhere they thought would be safe. It’s not like a group of humans, especially templars, can just go waltzing into a Dalish camp. Hunters would have confronted them and, given the situation, most likely have killed them before they got even close enough to realize they had a Dalish child with them.”

“Or they would’ve killed them for having a Dalish child at all, assuming that she had been kidnapped,” said Líadan. Then she turned to Velanna. “You can’t deny that. My clan wasn’t nearly anywhere near as touchy as you are and had they seen that, they probably would’ve killed them outright. I guess we couldn’t expect the templars to try and return a Dalish child to her own people.”

Malcolm nodded. “Your clan almost killed my brother and me when they found us carrying _you_ , and you’re a grown woman. It was very much almost a ‘shoot the shem first, ask questions later, maybe’ kind of situation. Had we been carrying a child, I don’t think any of us would’ve lived.”

“You let these shems _carry_ you?” Velanna asked the other Dalish elf, disgust spread throughout her words. “Why did you not fight them? You truly just allowed them take you?”

Líadan rolled her eyes. “I was sick and unconscious at the time. I didn’t have a choice.” She sighed. “And, in the end, they saved my life.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t heard her admit that before. At least, not out loud, and not to him. Líadan shot him a look telling him she didn’t want to hear a word from him, and that if he dared to speak, she would flay him alive. He stayed quiet, as he quite liked having his skin covering his flesh. Just a personal preference, really. 

“Is that why you stay with these shems? Because you owe them?”

“No. I stay because...” Líadan glanced over at Malcolm and quickly looked away. His brow furrowed. What was _that_ about? The elf looked back at Velanna. “Because I gave them my oath.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The comment brought a newly incensed Líadan to her feet. “I gave them my word as a Dalish that I would stay, and so I do.”

Malcolm wondered when that promise had taken place. He didn’t remember hearing anything like that. Well, she had taken the Grey Warden oath and she was Dalish, so he supposed that counted. Or maybe she’d actually given some other oath as a Dalish to Alistair during that time when she refused to speak to him. He’d have to ask his brother. 

Velanna smirked at Líadan. “ _Ma ven’din inna shemlen lath, seth’lin._ ”

“ _Mahala! Manan’din, len’asha lath’din_!”

“That was particularly colorful,” said Riordan, the hint of a bemused smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Zevran was right, your best swears _are_ in Elvish.”

All three of the other people in the room turned to gape at the Warden Commander. Malcolm recovered first and asked, “You speak Elvish?”

He shrugged. “One Warden Commander I had for ten years was Dalish. I speak the language well enough.”

“You never said anything,” said Líadan. 

“You never asked, lass,” he replied. “Besides, I didn’t think it was terribly important. You rarely use Elvish and you speak fluent, unaccented Fereldan.”

“And yet, her Orlesian is atrocious,” Malcolm mumbled.

“I swear to the Creators, if you bring that up again, I will end you,” Líadan told him.

He gave her a cheeky grin, finding courage because now he had an unbiased person to run whatever Elvish phrases he heard by. If only he could remember what he’d heard when he’d been injured, he’d be in an ever better position. However, at least he could find out what that Elvish phrase he’d come up with while wearing Morrigan’s ring was. That meant he didn’t have to endure Líadan’s grumbling about Morrigan if he’d asked her to translate. 

“I hate you,” she said, dropping into her chair again.

“ _Arinan navhenan’ara_ , Líadan _,_ ” said Velanna, in a nearly sing-song tone.

Líadan didn’t bother to look at the other Dalish elf. “ _Mahala!_ ”

Though Malcolm couldn’t speak Elvish, and had no idea what Velanna had said, he was fairly certain that Líadan had just told her to shut up. And shut up Velanna did, but not without a self-satisfied smirk. 

Riordan’s own smile almost broke through his composure as he looked at them. Then he took a moment to entirely dismiss the amusement before saying, “Velanna, I offer you a place in the Grey Wardens.”

“I accept, Warden Commander,” said Velanna. 

Both Malcolm and Líadan groaned and immediately set to renewing their protests, their statements and objections overlapping one another. 

Riordan allowed them to go for a minute or so, and then cut them off with a raised hand. “Neither of you are to argue about this any longer,” he said to them once they fell respectfully, if grudgingly, silent. “I’ve heard your reasons, and I’ve made my decision. In addition, you will both be guiding Velanna as she acclimates to her place in the Grey Wardens. You will help her prepare for her Joining, and she will travel with you on your missions afterward until she has settled in.”

“Are you sure that that’s the best—” Malcolm started.

“You can’t really expect me to—” started Líadan.

“No arguments,” said Riordan, silencing them. “I’ve made my decision, and you will abide by it.”

His declaration met with outraged silence and murderous glares from both Wardens in front of him, and from Velanna, an almost-relieved smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish Translations:
> 
> -Velanna: “Ma ven’din inna shemlen lath, seth’lin.”  
> “You stay for your shemlen love, thinblood.”
> 
> -Líadan: “Mahala! Manan’din, len’asha lath’din!”  
> “Shut up, you know nothing, you bitch!”


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

“Through the greenwood they ran, hart and hunter

Bringing the stag to spear at last in the long-forgotten grove,

Heedless that the chase had waked a hunger in the golden wood,

A werewolf, a creature with mind of man,

Lured by the hunt and come forth to lay claim

To the hart as rightful tribute

Drawn by the scent of cooling blood.”

—from _The Saga of Dane and the Werewolf,_ 4:50 Black

**Malcolm**

Riordan had dismissed Velanna, sending her to Varel to be assigned a room and brought to the quartermaster. He gave both Malcolm and Líadan questioning looks when they didn’t take their leave as well, and then sighed. “You both have something more to say, I take it?”

Thinking of the dragon dreams, Malcolm nodded, feeling miserable and wondering if he should talk about it with Líadan there. Probably not, considering it meant bringing up Morrigan.

The commander glanced at Líadan. “And you? You wish to discuss what Velanna said to you, yes? Because if you don’t, I do, if it makes you react like that.”

Malcolm decided he really, _really_ needed to learn Elvish. Líadan gave him an uncomfortable look, informing both him and Riordan that whatever it was she had to talk about, she didn’t want to with Malcolm around. He barely kept himself from rolling his eyes. It wasn’t like Líadan wasn’t one of his closest friends or anything, or that there was anything she knew that he didn’t know. Then again, he also had things to speak to Riordan about that he didn’t really want Líadan around for. Because it involved, you know, Morrigan, and that was such a happy subject with her. Then he decided that he’d just start telling Riordan, because it was stupid to avoid the topic of Morrigan around Líadan when obviously it would only be appearing more and more often. After all, eventually they’d have to go directly after the Architect and that’s when there’d be a whole _lot_ of talking about the witch. Best just starting to get that angry awkwardness over with now, with Riordan nearby to keep them from coming to too many blows. He sighed and turned to the commander. “We should probably get Fiona in here since it has to do with Morrigan and the ring.”

“Yes, that would be a good idea. You go find her and bring here here, and while you do that, I’ll talk to Líadan,” Riordan replied. “And make sure you knock before you come in, since no one around here seems to understand that particular rule of civilized conduct.”

Malcolm shrugged as he stood. “Hey, it’s Ferelden. We aren’t known for our courtly charms.” He frowned. “Or any charms, really. I guess you were in Orlais for too long.” Yet not long enough to take a conspiracy against his life seriously, Malcolm thought. Speaking of conspiracies, he’d have to ask around about Ser Tamra if he could later. She hadn’t returned since they’d been to the Wending Wood and back, and she hadn’t sent any messages, either. It seemed odd after she’d been so urgent at the fealty ceremony for her to abruptly fall silent, and warranted some inquiry. After a hesitant nod to Riordan and Líadan, Malcolm quietly strode out of the commander’s study. 

The Vigil had finished awakening from its early morning quiet. Out in the yard, a temporary forge had been set up outside the basement entrance. A dwarven master smith—somehow exiled to the surface, but would never talk about his story—worked at the anvil, helping to shape the various parts they needed to finish securing the dwarven sealing door to the Deep Roads. Each strike of his hammer rang across the yard, echoing off the repaired and reinforced stone walls of the fortress. Though the morning was still chilly, the dwarf’s arms, corded with muscle, were bare and slick with sweat from the physical exertion combined with the heat of the forge. Yet there was the barest trace of happiness to his bearded face, the sign of a man doing what he enjoyed in order to make a living. Part of Malcolm was jealous of the dwarf. Not because the man was an exile from where he’d grown up, certainly not that. However, he was jealous that the dwarf was doing something he loved for a career. Malcolm wasn’t sure that’s what he was doing for a living, not that he had much choice. And not that his vocation didn’t have a few decent, noble aspects—protecting humanity from the darkspawn was noble, in the end, almost no matter how he went about it. But he wasn’t sure if it was what he’d wanted for himself as a kid. If he had, he was pretty damn sure there would’ve been griffons involved.

Except he still didn’t know what he wanted, so it was what it was. He was a Grey Warden, like it or not, and it was who he was and what he did. There was also the element of being a Theirin heir, but Alistair pretty much, and thankfully, had the lockdown on that part, being king and all. Malcolm was sure he didn’t want that, just as when he was a boy, he hadn’t wanted to be teyrn. The dwarf noticed he had an audience when he stopped and rolled his massive shoulders. He grinned at Malcolm and offered a good morning. Malcolm nodded back, also smiling, but knowing his smile was nothing like the dwarf’s. The smith went back to work and Malcolm wandered the yard, looking for Fiona. 

He ended up finding a mage, but not his natural mother. Anders and Sigrun stood near one of grassy areas, studying a line of shrubs. As Malcolm walked up behind them, Sigrun excitedly pointed at the shrub near the end. “Can you set that bush on fire?” she asked Anders.

The tall mage studied the bush for a moment, as if appraising it, and then cast a curious look at the dwarven woman next to him. “Probably, but why would I want to?”

She rolled her eyes and ignored the question. “Could you freeze it?”

Anders looked from Sigrun, to the shrub, and back to her. “Why do you want me to kill the bush?”

“Because it’s there?” she offered, and then threw up her arms. “It’s an evil bush! Do it!”

He scowled. “Magic isn’t for your amusement. Why don’t I just do a little dance? Anders’ Spicy Shimmy?”

Sigrun wrinkled her nose in disgust as Malcolm did the same. “Oh, ew. I’ll pass.” Then the shrub burst into flame and Sigrun clapped and shouted with glee. “Aw, I knew you loved me!”

Anders spun around, as if looking for the real culprit. “I didn’t do that.” At Sigrun’s sad look, he amended, “Not that I don’t love you or don’t think you’re a fantastic person or anything, I just wasn’t the one who lit that poor bush on fire.” He narrowed his eyes at Malcolm. “Was it you? You really _are_ a mage?”

“Still not a mage, so it wasn’t me,” Malcolm answered with a shrug.

“That was me,” said Fiona, strolling into the yard from one of the many side entrances. “That shrub had a funny look to it, I think.”

“Yes, it certainly had it coming,” Anders said. 

“At least Fiona loves me,” said Sigrun.

Anders rolled his eyes. “Hardly an accomplishment, since I think Fiona loves everyone.”

Sigrun tapped her tattooed chin thoughtfully. “Hmm. Maybe. Not sure if she’s a fan of the new girl. The grumpy Dalish elf that’s more grumpy than Ser Gloom-A-Lot?”

Malcolm snorted at Sigrun’s nickname for Nathaniel. It made the rogue scowl even more darkly every time he heard it, which meant Sigrun used it as often as she could. He told the others, “Riordan is going to make Velanna a Grey Warden.” Then he looked right at Sigrun, unable to keep the tiny smirk off his face. “And she probably would’ve made that shrub come alive and eat you if you’d asked her to set it on fire. So, watch your requests on killing nature-type stuff from now on, I guess.”

“Riordan really did that?” Fiona asked, and then she gave a small wave of her hand to stop him from answering. “No, I should have realized that when I saw Velanna with Varel earlier.” She sighed. “She’ll be difficult.”

“You don’t say,” said Anders. “You know, I tried that ‘finding women with tattoos incredibly attractive’ line on her earlier today. Was just trying to help her get out of her funk, you know. Anyway, she then tells me that she finds most humans physically and morally repulsive.”

“I see that worked out well for you, then,” said Fiona.

Anders flashed her a grin. “I’m undaunted, dear lady. She said ‘most’ not ‘all,’ so there’s still a chance.”

“Yes, a chance that she could kill you because you gravely offended her somehow if you talk to her,” Malcolm said. “She’s more twitchy than a very twitchy... thing.” He scowled. “Great, now I sound like my brother. This day is really going well. I go to Riordan’s office to convince him _not_ to let Velanna join and he sits there and listens like he’s actually going to consider what I say. But no, he’s already made up his sodding mind and just didn’t see fit to tell me until Líadan and I were done talking. That man is insane.”

“I’m starting to think that it’s a prerequisite to becoming a Grey Warden,” said Anders. “And if it is, then Velanna fits right in. You have to admit, even if that chip on her shoulder has pretty much replaced her head, she’s a very skilled, powerful mage, which means she could kill a lot of darkspawn in a lot of fantastic ways.”

“Or kill _us_ in a lot of really fantastic ways because we somehow looked at her wrong,” Malcolm muttered. “I mean, I thought Líadan was twitchy when we first recruited her—and that’s saying a lot because she once hit me with lightning in the Deep Roads over a simple misunderstanding—but Líadan is nothing compared to Velanna.”

“I’m sure she’d like to hear that,” said Sigrun.

“Which one?” asked Anders. “I could just go tell them both, and then we can watch as Malcolm tries to keep from getting set on fire by two angry Dalish mages. That’s some fine entertainment, right there. Far better than setting shrubbery on fire.” He slid a glance over at Malcolm. “You have to admit, you’ve got a way with Dalish elves.”

“I... what? What are you talking about? I haven’t a ‘way’ about anything. Velanna hates me, though she actually hates all humans, so that isn’t any sort of exclusive hatred, and Líadan hated me for _weeks_ after she first joined during the Blight.” He frowned in thought. “Actually, she probably still hates me now and is up with Riordan telling him all about how much she hates me.”

“Right,” said Anders. “I’ll believe that she hates you when I believe that the Circle never lied to me. Which is to say, never.”

“Whatever.” Malcolm decided that continuing that particular conversation with the mage would only make things far worse than they already were. “Anyway, Riordan decided that since Líadan and I objected so much to Velanna becoming a Warden that we have to work with her, even though we aren’t the junior Wardens any longer. We’re supposed to take her down to the Deep Roads to kill some darkspawn, and then we’re supposed to take her on whatever mission we’re going on after the arl’s court and the Joining.”

“Notice how Riordan made the foregone conclusion that you would assign Líadan to your team?” asked Anders. 

“Notice how it’s like a punishment? You’ve _seen_ how much Líadan and Velanna fight.”

Anders grinned. “Oh, I’ve noticed, all right. It’s incredibly h—”

“No, it isn’t,” said Fiona. “If you knew what they were saying to each other, you wouldn’t be thinking that. And no, I’m not going to tell you, either, since I suspect there’s a reason why they’ll only say those awful things to each other in Elvish. So, please, do _not_ encourage their fighting. It’s bad enough as it is, especially now that they’ll have to work closely together.” She ran a hand through her greying hair and sighed. “I’m sure Riordan must have his reasons.” However, she didn’t look particularly convinced.

“Oh!” said Malcolm. “About Riordan. He sent me to fetch you so that he could talk to you and me and Líadan in his study before the whole court thing he has to do today. Maybe you could convince him that this whole making Velanna a Grey Warden plan is a bad idea.”

“I’m not entirely convinced that it _is_ a bad idea,” Fiona replied. “She has a lot of potential, she wants to be a Warden, and is far from the first angry recruit we’ve ever had. She’s lost everything, including a purpose, for the most part. Being a Grey Warden will give her something, at least. But, come along, we’ll speak with Riordan anyway.”

Anders crossed his arms and gave them a mock scowl. “Fine, leave us out of the gossip. I see how it is.”

“Don’t worry, whenever I have to go out on a mission with Velanna, I’ll be sure to take you with me, Anders,” Malcolm said before heading off toward Riordan’s study, laughing to himself at Anders’ simultaneous looks of being elated and frightened. Fiona fell into step next to him, quiet and obviously deep in thought, so he didn’t say anything. Hopefully, Líadan and Riordan would be done with whatever strange conversation they were having by the time they got there. Otherwise, more epic awkward would be had, and it wasn’t even mid-morning yet.

As they rounded the corner, Fiona suddenly asked, “So what’s the meeting about?”

He sighed. “Morrigan.”

“Then you tried wearing the ring?”

“Shouldn’t have.”

“So you did.”

“And it was incredibly disturbing.”

“That means we’re getting somewhere.”

“Somewhere _bad_ , I tell you. Nothing good can come out of this.” As soon as he said it, he realized that he meant it. He didn’t want to believe it, not yet, not ever, but a part of him recognized that nothing about this search and journey and eventual destination of finding Morrigan could be considered good. Oghren, even though he was Oghren, was most likely right. It was a subject that should be let go, fluttering into the wind, carried up and away and entirely forgotten. Well, up until that forgotten squall returned as a hellstorm unleashed upon the entire land. Then he’d probably wish he’d done something differently. Oh, there it was. The regret that Morrigan had foretold, jabbing into his side. A hand touched his elbow and brought him to a halt. He blinked and looked down at Fiona, the hand’s owner.

Her eyes were dark and warm and studying him quite intensely, as if searching for an answering that lay somewhere beyond his soul. Then she asked, “Do you want her back?”

“I...” Malcolm stepped away and leaned against the wall. “I don’t know. I mean, I want what we _had_ back, but I’m not sure if that was even real, aside from what I personally felt. But how can you get something back if you never truly had it?” He shrugged listlessly. “You can’t. I honestly can’t imagine myself trusting her again, not like I used to.” He propped one of his feet behind him. “It’s strange. It’s almost like I want the Blight back, but without the darkspawn and the archdemon and the whole ‘Blight’ aspect of the... Blight. No, not that. I want what we had before she said anything to me about the Old God’s soul. The thing that existed between us before she initiated her entire grand plan of whatever it is she’s planning. And if the plan’s as grand as she said it was—that she was sent by her mother to travel with us with the very intention of gaining the child with the Old God’s soul—then nothing existed between us at all in the first place. It was all predicated on a lie. I want the ignorance of the lie back and, at the same time, I want answers. I want to know why. And I want to know _if_.”

Fiona mirrored her son’s actions on the opposite side of the corridor. “If?”

He straightened, pushing himself off the wall with his foot. “Yes, if. If she told the truth, ever, at any point during the time she knew us. If the Old God child is a danger. If Flemeth is still alive. If she ever truly felt the same as I did. Do. Did.” A crooked, rueful smile found his lips. “If I really even know what I felt in the first place. Which I don’t. I don’t even know what I feel now.”

She shrugged. “If you don’t do anything, then you’ll never know.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, trying to figure out what, or whom, she was referring to. Her statement had sounded remarkably similar to the one he’d heard her tell Líadan when he was in that strange near-awake dream state. “Who are you talk—”

The door to Riordan’s office opened and Líadan poked her head out, looking annoyed. “Are you two coming in here or are you just going to stand out there and chat all day?”

“Just think about it,” Fiona told Malcolm, and then strode into the office.

Malcolm kept a suspicious eye on the elf until she crossed out of his sight. Then he sighed and followed her inside. He glanced at Líadan once he sat down in front of Riordan’s desk for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning. While he’d noticed out of the corner of his eye that she’d watched him while he walked in, she wasn’t looking at him anymore. Instead, her eyes focused either on the bare wall behind Riordan or flicked over to the window, and not once did she look directly at Riordan, or even over at Malcolm or Fiona. Meanwhile, the older elf was studying the younger as intently as she’d studied Malcolm out in the hallway, perhaps even waiting for Líadan to make eye contact. 

“So what’s the latest development concerning Morrigan and the ring?” Riordan asked.

Malcolm switched his attention to the commander. “I wore the ring for a little bit last night. Maybe a minute or so, not very long. It was... strange. I saw things, in addition to feeling them.” He hurtled onward, before the others needed to ask for specifics. “I saw trees, a forest. Old growth, nothing new. I heard and saw wolves. And I _think_ I saw werewolves.”

Riordan raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Werewolves, lad? Were you wearing the ring or having a nightmare?”

Stretching his legs out in front of him, Malcolm blew a long breath of air between thinned lips. “I know. I know how it sounds—”

“Vague and addled is what it sounds like,” said Líadan.

He threw a glare at her, and then continued, “But bear with me. After what might have been werewolves, I saw a campfire. I saw bows, wooden, intricately carved ones. I heard kids laughing. And I heard a woman, no one I recognized, say something in Elvish.”

“What did she say? Can you remember?” Fiona asked.

Malcolm nodded, and hoped he didn’t mess up the pronunciation too badly. “I think I heard ‘ _Andaran atish’an, falon_.’ I mean, if I didn’t screw that up.”

“Enter this place in peace, friend,” Líadan immediately translated. “It’s a formal greeting, used with strangers, people you greatly respect, or even the start of a contractual agreement. It really depends on the situation. And of course, here, it’s vague and really might not indicate anything significant at all. But...” She drummed her fingers against her leather boot. “There’s the werewolves to consider.”

“Why would we be considering mythical creatures?” Riordan asked.

“And you say you were born and bred in Highever, you liar,” Malcolm said. “Werewolves aren’t exactly mythical, at least not in Ferelden, not after that whole werewolf problem in the Black Age. Besides, werewolves were brought up by Velanna’s former clanmates, when they were talking about another clan they ran into in Nevarra or the Free Marches. They mentioned two places—the Planasene Forest and the Sedim Forest. And the clan they mentioned was... was...”

“The Ra’asiel clan,” Líadan said. “Incredibly insular and overly paranoid even for the Dalish. It’s been rumored for hundreds of years that werewolves actively hunt that clan.”

“Incredibly insular and overly paranoid even for the Dalish,” Riordan repeated, studying a quill he held between his fingers. “Heartening. And what has it to do with Morrigan?”

Malcolm shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m telling you what it has to do with the ring, since that’s what I saw when I put it on. Anyway, that was all that I saw. But, I also felt stuff, things that weren’t coming from me. Mostly, it was panic and this need to escape.”

“Hardly surprising, considering pretty much all of Thedas is after her,” said Líadan.

He looked over at her, wondering if she was trying to antagonize him or being herself. Which, now that he thought about it, was pretty much the same thing. “But after that sentence in Elvish, the panic actually went away a little. It didn’t entirely disappear, but it wasn’t quite as bad. And then everything got a whole lot _worse_ because I heard a dragon.”

Riordan dropped his quill. “You heard a dragon do what, exactly? Walk? Stomp? Call? Please don’t say Call. I really don’t think I could take another Blight right now.”

“Just roar,” Malcolm said. “That’s when I took off the ring. It freaked me out.”

“Understandably,” said Fiona.

“So, from this impression, we can—” started Riordan.

Malcolm lifted his hand. “There’s more.” 

Riordan briefly closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he sat back and held out an arm, indicating for Malcolm to continue.

“I’ve been having dreams.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unable to keep still as the fear of the Blight and the archdemon slid back into his soul. “About high dragons. Not corrupted ones, though, so they aren’t about an archdemon, I don’t think. Multiple dragons at a time, some being swallowed up by the ground, others wailing, almost in anguish, for lack of a better word. One dream had people falling to their knees to worship them. The dragons’ eyes, they... it was weird. They were like Morrigan’s eyes, like Flemeth’s eyes.”

“That strange golden color?” said Líadan. “The color like a wolf’s eyes?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“That... cannot be good, to be dreaming of that.” Riordan shuffled through a couple of the papers on his desktop. “When did the dreams start, by chance?”

Malcolm made sure he didn’t look in either Líadan’s or Fiona’s direction. “During that week when I was unconscious or in a coma or whatever was wrong with me. There’d be times when I was almost awake. Not in the Fade, but not able to say or do anything with my body here, either. But I could hear stuff. I think that’s about when I had the first dream about the dragons, at least that I remember.”

“Hmm.” Riordan opened a drawer and dropped a paper into it, and then slid a quick look in Líadan’s direction. Malcolm chose not to follow the gaze and soon enough the commander looked back at him. “You remember anything else from that time?”

Malcolm’s eyes betrayed him, flicking ever so briefly Líadan’s way, pausing to note that she’d gone remarkably pale and still. Then he returned to Riordan, who looked suspiciously like he was holding in a smirk. “Nothing like the dragons, no.” He wasn’t going to lie to the other man, but he didn’t particularly want to admit to anything else he might’ve overheard. Besides, he could tell that Líadan was desperately afraid that he’d say something, that he might remember what she said, or what she and Fiona had talked about. There were enough fears coming true lately that he didn’t really want to add more to the pile.

This time, Riordan did smile. “Nice non-answer. But I’ll let it go for now. However, please  do explain to me whatever you’re thinking about how Morrigan could be connected to the Dalish.” He looked between both Malcolm and Líadan. “Either of you. Or both of you. So long as it gets explained.”

“Morrigan could be hiding among the Dalish,” Malcolm said. “In particular, the clan that’s being hunted by the werewolves, though that would be a strange choice for a woman who is seeking safety.”

“Not if she solves their problem for them,” said Líadan, her eyes shining in near-admiration for the other woman’s possible audacity. “The Dalish really aren’t just going to let any human stay with them, if they’d even let one stay with them in the first place. Especially if we’re seriously talking about the Ra’asiel clan. Their keeper, Zathrian? He makes Velanna look like one of the most pro-human elves you’ve ever seen. So if Morrigan wanted to hide with his clan, she’d have to make them indebted to her. That’s the only way.”

“So, if she sees the problem with the werewolves,” said Fiona, quickly catching on, “and knows how to solve it, she jumps in, helps, and then they owe her. Then she could stay with them, if she wanted. But why the Dalish?”

“Exactly because we’re insular,” said Líadan. “If there are a bunch of different factions in Thedas looking for her, why not hide with the people that like to hide from those other factions in the first place? Saves a lot of work on her part, when you think about it. Find one clan with a unique problem, solve that problem, and then make them repay you by providing shelter. Even the Elvish words Malcolm heard could indicate that would be a possibility. The welcome could be the start of a contract to provide a safe haven, simple as that.”

“Are you saying that we know where Morrigan is?” asked Riordan. 

“I wouldn’t go that far. The Ra’asiel clan winters in the Sedim Forest in the Free Marches, which is actually incredibly hard to find. Personally, I’ve only heard of the place, and only in passing. The clan certainly won’t be in the Planasene anymore, I can tell you that. Pretty much all we know is where Morrigan _was_ ,” said Líadan.

“Which we knew already.” Malcolm sighed. “We just added a new location to the list.”

Líadan sat up straight. “Maybe. Or, we now know the people she’s with, and tracking the movement of an entire group of people is easier than tracking a single person. Of course, this is assuming the rumors from Velanna’s former clanmates are true, and that Malcolm really felt and saw that stuff when he wore the ring, and didn’t just imagine it out of fear or whatever else.”

“Whatever else?” asked Malcolm, assuming she was accusing him of making everything up. “What would that be?”

She caught the accusation and bristled at it. “I don’t _know_. That’s why I said ‘whatever else.’ If I knew what it was, I would’ve just said that,” Líadan shot back. “If you want me to speculate, I’ll speculate. You could just be imagining it, your dreams just throwing a bunch of things from your waking life together to make sense of them. You know, giving yourself false hope because you’re somehow hoping that she’s not really gone. You hear some random elf talking about werewolves, so you dream about werewolves. There’s constant talk of Old Gods and high dragons, so you dream about them, too. And with all the interaction with the Dalish lately, it isn’t much of a leap to assume that your dreams would incorporate Elvish. Maybe that’s what I meant by ‘whatever else.’ _Or_ , instead of being confrontational, because for once I _wasn’t_ , I could have meant—”

He drew his legs back up so they were bent at the knees and his feet flat on the floor, finding himself no longer wanting to recline. “So, what, I’m dreaming entire conversations in Elvish? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”

Her look told him that she thought him an idiot of the highest grade. “No, that’s not what I said. You’re being ridiculous. Stop it. You’re doing this on purpose.”

Was he? And then he realized it didn’t matter. If she was going to push him, he was going to push back, simple as that. Both of them could get angry about Morrigan and how she appeared and disappeared constantly, how she never stayed with them and yet never stayed away and gone. Here he might have another clue, an actual trail that he could follow if he chose to. But in order to do that, he’d have to throw away all his responsibilities, and that wasn’t something he was willing to do. So yet again she was there and gone in an instant. He couldn’t get any answers about anything, it seemed. Either with a woman determined to lose herself amongst the wild forests of Thedas or a woman determined to maintain that she never said a word to him while she’d assumed he was unconscious. “So what did you say, then, in Elvish? Since you agree that I couldn’t have imagined it.”

“What? What are you talking about?” But the blush appearing on her high cheekbones, vivid against her paler-than-usual skin, gave her away. She studied him, disbelieving that he’d toss that challenge out in the open so easily. Her eyes widened slightly on realizing exactly what he was referring to. “That’s... not what I meant,” she said. “And not what we were talking about. What I _was_ saying, before you interrupted me in your grand rush to piss me off, was that I didn’t think you were imagining it and I bet it all means something. What it means, I’m not sure, and I don’t even know if I want to think about it because I bet it involves the Old Gods. Urthemiel in particular, since that’s the Old God whose soul we’ve entirely lost track of.”

“Not entirely,” said Malcolm. “It’s with Morrigan, in a way. Has to be. Or, you know, Riordan here would be dead.”

“And then you would be stuck in charge,” said Riordan with a hint of amusement.

“Creators forbid,” muttered Líadan.

Though he never wanted to be in charge, Malcolm couldn’t help but feel slightly stung at the remark.

Riordan’s amusement dissolved. “You think Malcolm would do that poorly?”

Líadan blinked, as if just realizing what she’d said, and that she’d said it out loud. “No, no that’s not what I meant. Nevermind.” She frowned and stood up, restlessness evident in her movement. “I need to go check on the progress of the Deep Roads doors since we’ll have to go down there with Velanna. Let me know if somehow we magically pinpoint Morrigan and Ser Pick-a-Fight decides he needs to chase after her. I’ll gladly smack him over the head to knock him out and keep him from doing something stupid.” As the other three people in the room stared, she swiftly exited, leaving a wake of confusion behind her. 

Malcolm had noticed the telltale scrunch of anger between her eyebrows. She was _pissed_. Mad enough where she’d just walked away instead of yelling at him, even. She hadn’t done that before. Always, once she realized her anger enough to make that face, she would yell at him or even hit him with lightning, and then they’d patch it up. Things would go back to normal. But things hadn’t been normal between them for a while, if he really thought about it. Not since... probably not since Weisshaupt. Maybe even before, maybe when she’d first appeared riding next to him on the Imperial Road south of Montfort. 

Across from him, Riordan had a contemplative look, while Fiona seemed perturbed. The corners of her mouth had turn down in a slight frown as her chin rested on her fist, and her eyes, darkened with frustration, stayed on the closed door. Not frustrated at the commander, Malcolm realized, or Líadan. She was irritated with him. Truly irritated, not just the normal, occasional annoyance she’d get with him for being himself at times. “What did I do?” he asked her.

She blinked, bringing her gaze from the door to him. “You did exactly what she said. You picked a fight and she isn’t even the person you’re really angry with. She didn’t deserve that remark. Either of them. You’re a better person than that.”

He fought the disappointment in himself that followed Fiona’s admonishment. Whatever strangeness his relationship with the older woman was and unsure in how he felt about her, natural mother aside, he’d grown to respect her. And he respected her enough to want her approval and he’d just lost that approval and he felt awful for it. Not to mention that he’d also done something really not nice to Líadan. That didn’t help, either, because it meant Fiona’s disapproval was entirely deserved. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Fiona shrugged. “It isn’t me you should be apologizing to.”

Malcolm looked away and frowned, even more displeased with himself. He shouldn’t have gone after Líadan like that, especially since he knew how poorly she was reacting to whatever Velanna had said and whatever she’d then discussed with Riordan. He sighed, and then looked over at the Warden Commander, who’d yet to weigh in on the discussion. “What has Velanna been saying to Líadan that’s got Líadan yelling at her so quickly?”

“Not my place to tell you, lad,” he replied, glancing toward the window, and then scowling. “I need to hold court in a little while and I would like for you to be there, since you have training with it. Both you and Seneschal Varel can help to advise me, since I’ve really no idea what I’m doing, and I really just end up daydreaming about killing Fergus. Afterwards, I want you and Líadan to take Velanna and the three soldiers who went with you to the Wending Wood into the Deep Roads for darkspawn blood. Those three soldiers want to become Wardens and they stand a decent chance of making it through the Joining. I already know they’re martially and mentally well-suited to becoming Wardens. I want to hold the Joining as soon as the people here for the arl’s court depart. We need to get you and whoever you choose to take with you to Amaranthine tomorrow, if at all possible.”

“Amaranthine? Why? I thought we needed to investigate the report from Sigrun on the darkspawn at Kal’Hirol.” And Highever, Malcolm didn’t say out loud. At least Alistair was there now and could warn people if darkspawn were nearby. But thus far, suspicions had turned out correct and darkspawn had yet to attack since Malcolm’s location had been made known to the darkspawn. 

“Yes, we do need to do that, but the reports of Tevinter activity are troubling. Kal’Hirol is quiet for now and if they attack, we’ve people here to deal with that, for the most part. We’ll have to send a rather large amount of people to check out Kal’Hirol and I’d rather have things here on the surface as settled as they can be before I commit a lot of people to an extended trip in the Deep Roads. That said, from Amaranthine, I want you to take a ship to Highever and find that Deep Roads entrance that’s in the area. I want to get the dwarves we have contracted to be able to seal it before the heavy winter snows start. That mission is going to be just scouting. I want you to avoid the darkspawn completely, if at all possible. It’s more important to seal the entrance and get to investigating Kal’Hirol from here than it is infiltrating whatever’s going on near Highever. And there’s reports of Tevinter activity in Highever, as well, so you’ll investigate that on your way to those mountains where you think the entrance is. What was the name they had? Dane’s Fell or something?”

“Drake’s Fall. It’s pretty much a desolate place. No one goes up there, as it’s too inhospitable.” Relief surged through him, though, at knowing that he could soon help protect Highever in a much more concrete manner. Finally, there would be some resolution instead of the endless line of complications.

Riordan nodded. “All the more reason to get that discovered and sealed up as soon as possible. We just need to make sure there won’t be a Tevinter fleet bearing down on us while we take care of the darkspawn, or I’d send you to Highever right away.” He tapped his finger on the polished desktop for a moment. “For the trip to Amaranthine and Highever, I want you to take Líadan, for certain. Anders, Oghren, Nathaniel, and Velanna, provided she lives. Sigrun and Mhairi, I’ll keep back here to train with whoever else lives through the Joining, and in case the Keep is attacked.” He rose to his feet. “Time to go form that arl’s court. Varel will be here any minute, I suspect.”

As if he’d been listening on the other side of the door, there was immediately a knock and inquiry from the seneschal about the court. Riordan grinned at his prediction coming true. Malcolm wanly returned it, more concerned about having to sort things out with Líadan before they set out to Amaranthine and beyond. Concerned, or was it scared? Yes. Definitely scared.


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

“In time, the human empires will crumble. We have seen it happen countless times. Until then, we wait, we keep to the wild border lands, we raise halla and build aravels and present a moving target to the humans around us. We try to keep hold of the old ways, to relearn what was forgotten.

We call to the ancient gods, although they do not answer and have not heard us since before the fall of Arlathan, so that one day they might remember us: Elgar’nan the Eldest of the Sun and He Who Overthrew His Father, Mythal the Protector, Fen’Harel the Dread Wolf, Andruil the Huntress, Falon’Din the Friend of the Dead, Dirthamen the Keeper of Secrets, Ghilan’nain the Mother of Halla, June the Master of Crafts, and Sylaise the Hearthkeeper. 

We gather every ten years for the Arlathvhen, to retell the ancient stories and keep them alive. For when the human kingdoms are gone, we must be ready to teach the others what it means to be elves.”

— _Gisharel, keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish_

**Líadan**

Líadan had to force herself to keep from slamming the Warden Commander’s study door.  It was bad enough that Velanna’s constant needling about being less of a Dalish—a thinblood—for loving humans. Bad enough that Velanna had even gotten more personal, constantly making mentions of ‘the human man she loved’ and ‘her heart’s desire’ and even daring to laugh at her forthcoming indignant reactions. It was bad enough that Líadan knew what Velanna always threw at her was true, even though she’d yet to speak or barely even think of anything related to that awful emotion since she’d talked to Malcolm while he’d been unconscious. Oh, no. Not bad enough, because apparently that stupid human man had _heard_ her. And then he’d been enough of an _alasbora_ to not only mention the fact that he’d heard in front of other people, but even ask what she’d said with Riordan and Fiona sitting right there. 

Guards hurriedly got out of her way as she stalked through the corridors and out into the yard. And then Riordan had assigned her and Malcolm to work together with Velanna. Seriously, what exactly had she done to Riordan to irritate him enough for this assignment? It’d been bad enough when she was getting along with Malcolm and was just going to have to tolerate Velanna. But now she’d have to spend half her time keeping herself from repeatedly hitting the infuriating man with lightning in rather tender places, and the other half refraining from punching that infernal Dalish woman in the face. At least they were going to be killing some darkspawn that afternoon. That would help curtail the urges. Hopefully. Either that or she’d have a lot of explaining to do to Riordan if she returned from the Deep Roads without either of the others in tow.

The dwarves milling about the sealing door in the basement weren’t cowed like the human guards had been. Instead, they seemed to find her seething temper mildly amusing and not at all threatening. One dwarf—she couldn’t remember his name and honestly hadn’t been paying much attention—patiently explained the process they’d gone through to finish the door. Apparently they didn’t use just one door, they employed three, each with a different and more complicated locking mechanism the closer to the surface the door was. Líadan didn’t much care, so long as the door stayed shut when it was supposed to, opened when they wanted to, and the darkspawn stayed in the Deep Roads. She vaguely noticed another dwarf approach but didn’t really take a good look, her concentration both elsewhere and nowhere. 

“You’re the first elf I’ve ever known,” the dwarf said. “Do you feel honored?”

Líadan blinked and glanced over and down at Sigrun. Great, now she was starting to alienate the perfectly nice Wardens. “Honored? What? Why would I feel honored? And didn’t you see Fiona first?”

Sigrun grinned. “Nope. Saw you first, all glaring out into the darkness... sort of like you are now, actually. Wow, you’ve got a really good glower, there. But, you’re the first elf I saw clearly, though. So all your actions will influence my opinion of your entire race. Forever.”

She barely kept herself from growling at the dwarf. Sigrun was just being Sigrun and trying to cajole her out of her mood. She did the same thing with broody Nathaniel often enough. But her frustration with Malcolm and Velanna just couldn’t be overcome so easily, even as she tried not to take it out on Sigrun. “Oh, thank you,” she said, not entirely succeeding in holding her temper. “I needed more anxiety. Really.”

“Glad to help!” Sigrun smiled again and patted her on the arm. “So, who’re you mad at? The new elf? I heard there was yelling. And a possible fistfight, but you’re both mages, right? So if you get into a fight, you’ll fight with magic, won’t you?”

Líadan stared at her. “I...”

“A chick fight?” said Oghren, meandering over from where he’d been talking with one of the other dwarves. “Oh, Ancestors, yes, I can’t wait for that one between them two elves. It’s brewing, all bubbling under the surface, I can tell. In fact, I’ve started a pool, if you want in.” He directed his last comment at Sigrun.

She coughed and waved the air in front of her face. “Ugh. Oghren, I could light your breath on fire.”

Oghren waggled his eyebrows. “That’s not the only thing you could light on fire, saucy lady.”

She exchanged a weary look with Líadan, and then sighed. “Do you ever stop drinking?”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that.” To illustrate, Oghren fetched his flask out of his beard and took a sip. “It enhances the Oghren experience. I’m like a cherry soaked in brandy. Plump... juicy... and full of intoxicating flavor.” Two dwarves nearby burst into laughter, while Sigrun made a choking noise.

Líadan, however, was still focused on the betting pool the dwarf had mentioned. “Betting pool?” she repeated, fists forming at her sides. “Really?”

“Aye,” he replied. “Wouldn’t believe the size of the pool, too. We’re bettin’ on when you’ll actually come to blows, you and that new girl, Velanna. Can’t be long now, I reckon. I mean, look at you now, you can barely stand still. There’s fire in your eyes that’d incinerate anyone who’d cross your path and irritate you in the slightest way. You wouldn’t harm old Oghren though, I know that. You’re just too fond of me.”

“Yes, that must be it. That’s exactly why I haven’t yet kicked you in the manhood. I’m considering rectifying that as we speak. Strongly considering.” She tapped her foot.

“Hmm.” The dwarf glanced down at the impatient, silverite-reinforced, leather-shod elven foot. “How about I cut you in on the proceeds for not injuring my man parts?”

“If you have man parts,” said Sigrun.

He leered at her. “Oh, Oghren’s got man parts. I can show you, if you like.”

“Keep your parts to yourself or you’ll find yourself separated from them.” Sigrun’s fingertips drifted towards the handles of her axes.

“Now there’s no need to get violent. Well, unless you’re into that sort of thing.” After another saucy grin at Sigrun, he looked back to Líadan. “So what say you?”

She rolled her eyes. It wasn’t worth it to deter Oghren. It wouldn’t work and would be a waste of time. “Whatever. I don’t care.”

The resigned answer raised Oghren’s eyebrows. “What’s got you? You aren’t even mad about that other elf right now, are you? You’re mad about something else. Oh! Some _one_ else!” He leaned in closer, the ale on his breath making Líadan wonder if Oghren perhaps ran on alcohol instead of blood, unlike other living beings. “Is it the younger pike-twirler? Is he not good enough in bed? Not satisfied?”

Líadan stared at him. “What? No! I mean, that’s not what... we haven’t even... what are you going _on_ about, dwarf?”

Sigrun snickered, earning a glare from the elf. 

“Bah. Told you that you two needed a tumble. My advice still stands. It’ll just keep getting worse, mark my words.” Oghren turned to Sigrun. “Going to need to start another few pools, I think. When her and Pike-Twirler the Younger take a proverbial roll in the hay, when they’ll have their next shouting match—that’ll be a good one, just look at her face right now, he’s in for it—oh, and when she’ll zap him with lightning again. That’s always a good show.”

“She... hits him with lightning? Really? I thought that was an exaggeration.”

Oghren nodded. “Yep. No exaggeration. She’s done it twice now.”

Sigrun glanced up at Líadan, eyes wide. “What did he _do_?”

“Which time?” Líadan asked, fighting the impulse to knock their thick skulls together.

“Ha!” Oghren laughed. “Here’s the thing! Both times, all he did was touch her, in totally innocent ways, too. I say the boy’s doing it all wrong and that’s why she zaps him, because he doesn’t do better, but that’s just Oghren talking. He needs a lesson or two, I think. I mean, I thought the witch would’ve taught him better, back during the Blight, or the Antivan elf would’ve given him some advice, but I guess not.”

“Witch? Wait, are we talking about the one the darkspawn are after?”

“One in the same. Let me tell you what I used to hear coming from that witch’s tent—”

Líadan made a frustrated sound, threw up her arms, and walked out of the tunnel, leaving the two gossiping dwarves behind. They noticed her depart, as she heard a faint chuckle from Oghren and Sigrun’s light laughter. Then Oghren set to talking about Morrigan and _that_ again. While it hadn’t bothered her when it happened back during the Blight, now she hated hearing about it, because of how everything had ended, and partly because of how her feelings had changed about the man in question. Creators be damned, she was going to end up strangling the dwarf, too. He was relentless and crass and irritating and... probably right, on almost all accounts. Riordan had practically told her the same after he’d questioned her on how Velanna’s seemingly little comments riled her up so much. Of course, he hadn’t been as blunt and certainly not crass at all, but the idea had been pretty much exactly the same. Even Fiona’s words could be construed in the same manner. 

Of course, she had to get past the urge to kill him that she had right now. And then there was Morrigan, closer and yet as far away as ever before. If the witch was hiding with the Dalish, Líadan suspected it wasn’t merely just for safety, though it had to be a large component of her reasoning. Her other suspicion was that it had to do with the knowledge of lore and magic the Dalish possessed. Their abilities and spells extended back to the days of Arlathan and new things were being re-discovered all the time. Already, rumors abounded that Zathrian had discovered the long lost immortality of their ancestors, as the keeper had lived for several centuries already. Others said that he extended his life through an unknown and possibly dark kind of magic. But no one was sure, and no one asked him, at least that they knew of. While she wasn’t sure if it was this immortality that Morrigan sought, she _was_ sure that Morrigan wanted ancient _Elvhenan_ knowledge, because that translated directly into power. It certainly had for ancient Tevinter.

If Morrigan wanted to remain out of the clutches of every faction that sought her, including her mother Flemeth, that meant she needed that power. She needed to escape. She needed to get as far away as humanly possible, and Líadan had started to suspect that Morrigan sought a way to escape Thedas entirely. The witch would take her Old God child and leave everyone behind, never to return. Or to return in the far future to take care of Flemeth once and for all. Or something like that—it was quite difficult to figure out any of Morrigan’s plans, much less the full extent of them. Líadan sighed. It would help to run these ideas by Malcolm, since he knew Morrigan the best. Except the Morrigan subject was a bad one for him in the first place, and between the two of them, it was the worst one. She wanted him to understand that Morrigan had left him, and if he managed to find her, she would only end up leaving him again. She’d only end up betraying him again, leaving him battered and bruised inside once more.

Part of Líadan knew that it might even hurt Morrigan when she did those things. Loathe as she was to admit it because of what the witch had done, Morrigan truly might have felt something for Malcolm akin to love. Líadan wondered if that was part of what made her so angry with the woman who’d once been a friend. That she would hurt herself _and_ him for something that Líadan couldn’t begin to understand. Not that Morrigan had even bothered to try and explain it to any degree. She’d gotten what she’d wanted in the first place and had up and left. Not that she’d stay gone, though being found might not end up being fully her choice.

Malcolm was going to go after Morrigan, she knew. The chase was coming, it was only a matter of when. As the dreams and feelings of the proper directions increased, Malcolm would only get more restless. More antsy, like he’d done in Denerim before he left for Highever, and from what Fergus had said, as he’d done at Highever before he’d left for Weisshaupt. Something in him still searched, if for meaning or purpose or what, she wasn’t sure. But there was a restlessness in him. Problem was, she realized, no matter where he went, she was attached to him in some way. When he finally went to find Morrigan, she would follow. Not just because of him, but because she also wanted to talk to the witch. She wanted to know what Morrigan truly felt, truly planned, truly thought. If she were to speak honestly with Malcolm, while he was conscious this time, she wanted to be able to do so without guilt. Because, if she was honest with herself, part of what held her back from jumping in and doing what everyone else suggested was guilt. 

If he and Morrigan had a chance at staying together successfully, at really living with what had looked like existed between them during the Blight, then she had to let them. It would be the right thing to do. Yet she had to know that Morrigan wouldn’t hurt him again, because if she would, she would do her best to stop it. He’d be too blind to see it coming, and too willing to blame whatever bad thing happened on himself. But, if them being together, even out of Thedas, was meant to happen, she wouldn’t get in the way. If it meant staying only his friend—even at times like this, when she wanted to throttle him, he was still her closest friend—then she would have to deal with that. But she couldn’t escape him and the thought of being without him entirely frightened her far more than she’d ever thought. Him nearly dying, when he’d technically been dead, had revealed that. Especially when she’d stupidly told him all those things at his bedside. 

That he’d apparently _heard_ , that bastard. And he hadn’t let on _at all_. He hadn’t quite been in a coma, he’d been in _setheneran_ instead—the land of waking dreams.

She growled out loud, and a nearby guard jumped and practically hid in a doorway. Somehow, she’d made her way to the main hall without thinking, where the arl’s court was being held. Maybe watching some of the human court proceedings would help distract her. She was curious, after all. The guard who hadn’t heard her growl nodded as she approached, and then opened the door just enough so she could walk inside. She’d chosen a rear entrance and found Anders lounging against one of the back walls. He offered her a smile when he noticed her walk in and motioned for her to join him. “Did I miss anything?” she asked, leaning next to him.

He shrugged. “No, not really. There were two lesser nobles complaining that the former arl promised a part of land belonging to one noble to the other as a reward for their loyalty. Riordan talked to Malcolm and Varel, and they basically told her that anything Arl Howe had promised was rubbish and she wasn’t getting her land. Or was it bridge? Anyway, doesn’t matter. Wasn’t exciting. But by the look on your face, I missed something exciting that happened to you.”

She ignored the mage’s blatant hint for her to tell him what happened. Instead of replying, she folded her arms across her leather cuirass and gazed up at the dais. Riordan stood there, at times looking mostly comfortable, and at other times looking like he’d rather be in the Deep Roads, given a choice. Varel and Malcolm flanked him, Varel more confident and not minding if he was noticed. Malcolm stood more behind the Warden Commander, attempting to appear as unnoticeable as possible, which wasn’t meeting with much success. Much as Alistair did, Malcolm had a presence about him, something that went with his inherent likability, and it wasn’t something that could really be suppressed, try as he might. But he did a decent job given what he had, not seeming to override the authority that Riordan projected as arl and commander. Riordan caught her gaze and nodded almost imperceptibly. Malcolm saw her next, his dark blue eyes widening ever so slightly in what could be construed as fear. She did nothing to allay that fear and glared. He quickly looked away.

Next to her, Anders smothered a laugh. “Oh, I see now. What’d he do this time?”

“I’m not talking about it. If you keep prodding me to talk about it, there will be violence.”

“Then it seems another topic is in order. I heard that Riordan invited Velanna to become a Warden. That true?”

If it wasn’t one sore subject, apparently it was another. She held in a sigh. “Yes. I was there when he extended the invitation, that idiot.”

“You speak so highly of our commanding officer that I’m practically overwhelmed at the praise. Really, there’s no need to go overboard.”

“I’m not going to mince words for his benefit. He’s a grown man and a veteran Warden. If I have something not nice to say, he can deal with it.” It wasn’t like she hadn’t called him worse things right to his face, both when trying to convince him not to let Velanna join and when he’d given her practically the same advice that Oghren had about Malcolm.

Anders chuckled. “Oh, he _has_ got you in a snit, hasn’t he?”

“You had better be talking about Riordan and not someone else.” Her eyes tracked movement as the main doors opened and two guards dragged in a human man dressed in rough, dirty clothing. Judging by the reactions from people close to them, the man didn’t smell nice. A tall, older man trailed behind them, in well-made, if humble, clothing. He also had the distinction of being the tallest human Líadan had ever seen.

“Hey look, another case for them to hear,” said Anders.

She nodded. “Good choice.”

“Well, I do like to avoid violence when at all possible. Especially violence exercised on my person. That forms part of my aversion to hanging out with templars.”

Líadan’s forthcoming reply was stopped by Varel stepping forward and announcing, “The Warden Commander will hear the matter of the Village of Navan against Gethin of Navan.” He glanced down at the extraordinarily tall man, who had stepped forward to stand in front of the guards and the captive. “Magistrate, you may state your case.”

The magistrate nodded solemnly to Varel, and then looked straight at Riordan. “This man stands accused of kidnapping a Dalish child called Rósín. The punishment for kidnapping is death by hanging.”

Riordan’s eyes narrowed slightly, and a spark of recognition went through them. He remembered who Rósín was, then. Recalling the commander’s reaction to the elven girl’s story, it would not go well for this man should the evidence be convincing. Behind the commander, Malcolm had straightened, and in doing so entirely called to the fact that he was the king’s younger brother and a Theirin. He had a bearing to him, when riled up and righteous, and as soon as he heard the charge against the accused, the bearing appeared. 

The audience noticed Malcolm’s shift from quiet observer to angered prince and hushed murmurs spread through the crowd. At the back of the room, Líadan had moved away from the wall, standing up straight and absolutely still. Malcolm’s eyes moved to hers briefly, and she saw her anger—now directed at the accused—mirrored in his. 

“This is ridiculous,” said Gethin, the accused man. “You can’t really expect to punish someone for taking one of those wild knife-ears, can you?”

Cries of outrage sounded from the crowd, accompanied by a scant few calls of agreement. Riordan turned and whispered something to Malcolm, who gave the commander a short nod, and then quickly exited a side door. Then Riordan caught Líadan’s eyes and motioned for both her and Anders to come forward. It seemed they would be offering some testimony, as they’d discovered the child’s body. Most likely, then, Malcolm had been sent to fetch the three soldiers, Oghren, and Nathaniel from wherever they were in the fortress. He’d probably personally escort Velanna and stay right next to her. Given her tendency towards extreme violence in connection to anything concerning her sister and niece, Malcolm’s templar skills would probably keep anyone from getting hurt, Velanna included. Riordan also probably wanted Velanna to hear what had happened. Líadan was certainly incredibly curious.

The murmur of the crowd had gotten louder. Riordan motioned for them to be quiet. “I’ve sent for more witnesses for this case,” he explained. “A party of my Wardens found the child later. I’d like this entire story to be put together here, if it can.” He entirely ignored Gethin’s outburst.

“Where is the child now?” the magistrate asked.

Riordan wasn’t able to halt the brief flash of sadness in his eyes. “We’ll get to that.”

After a few minutes, the doors started opening again, admitting the soldiers, a more dour than usual looking Nathaniel, an uncharacteristically grumpy Oghren, and finally Malcolm and Velanna. The other Dalish elf met Líadan’s eyes briefly and they exchanged a silent moment of solidarity. A gasp went through the crowd at Velanna’s entrance, presumably at the appearance of another Dalish elf. For the lesser nobles and commoners gathered, seeing a Dalish elf was a rare thing, unlike the guards and servants and Wardens, who saw Dalish elves on a daily basis. 

Once Velanna and Malcolm had walked to stand next to the commander, Líadan slipping in beside Velanna, just in case, Riordan asked for the magistrate to continue his story.

“Thank you, Warden Commander,” said the magistrate. “Many witnesses in Navan reported seeing Gethin forcibly trying to carry away a struggling child of five or six years old. A group of templars who had ridden into town found them and intervened. At first he claimed her to be a runaway servant, but those claims were quickly refuted. It was revealed that the child was named Rósín, and was a refugee from a forest fire started around her clan’s camp in the Wending Wood. The fire, sadly, is reported to have been started by humans trying to drive the nearby Dalish clan out. We suspect it was the Ames family, acting against the village council’s wishes for peace, and their case is pending.”

Velanna bristled. The magistrate stopped his explanation, eyes fearfully looking in Velanna’s direction. Líadan quickly touched the other elf’s arm to calm her as much as she could. “Don’t say anything out of turn. It won’t help the case against Gethin and for your niece.”

“They just admitted to trying to burn out my clan,” Velanna said quietly through clenched teeth.

“I know. And Riordan knows. And their magistrate knows and said they’re working on the case against the humans who set those fires. Humans who were _not_ most of the villagers.”

Riordan gave them a short, appreciative nod, and then asked the magistrate to continue.

“We secured Gethin in our holding cell until we could bring him here to the arl’s court. The templars took the child into their custody and said they would try to return the girl to her clan, as they were going into the Wending Wood. They said they would return to our village within a few days, but they never came back,” said the magistrate, in a calm, clear voice. It was the voice of a man used to presenting his case to an audience.

“That’s because they are dead,” said Riordan, disgusted glare on Gethin. “Both the templars and the child. They were killed by darkspawn.” Whispers and angry words were shouted and called from the audience. Riordan went quiet until the noise had died down. “The darkspawn threat in the Wending Wood has been taken care of and it is now safe to travel the Pilgrim’s Path once again. That’s why my Wardens were in the Wood, to negate that threat. In addition, the Dalish clan that dwelled within the forest has left for other lands.”

“Good,” said someone. “They shouldn’t have been there in the first place.”

“You _do_ realize that the Dalish fought with us against the darkspawn in the Blight, right?” Malcolm said, before even Líadan or Velanna could speak up in defense of their people. “And that you have two Dalish elves standing up here, right now, facing you? One that’s a Grey Warden and fought with us against the archdemon, and another that is a Grey Warden recruit?”

“They were encroaching on my farm! I had to do something,” said another person in the crowd, a short, squirrely-looking man. “Good riddance, I say.”

“That’s Ames,” the magistrate told Varel.

The seneschal promptly signaled the guards, who swiftly took custody of the stupidly outspoken man.

“Any attack on the Dalish is a breach of the king’s peace,” Riordan said as the guard subdued Ames. “Your attack resulted in a child being separated from her clan, kidnapped, and in the end, murdered by the darkspawn. Your blind racism and ignorance contributed to the death of a child. You’ll be sent to Fort Drakon in Denerim, to await your case to be tried in the king’s court.” He inclined his head. “Take him away.” Once the guards and the newly-shackled Ames had left the main hall, Riordan returned his dark gaze to Gethin. “And you. Have you anything to say in your defense?”

Gethin spat on the floor at the base of the dais, right under Velanna and Líadan’s feet. The two Dalish elves and Malcolm surged forward, all three of them intent on exacting revenge from the man. The guards, moving faster than Líadan thought possible, managed to get between the three Wardens and Gethin. None of the Wardens had pulled a weapon yet, and Velanna and Líadan hadn’t summoned any magic, despite the depth of their anger. Líadan knew, with regard to herself, he wanted to tear that rotten snake of a man limb from limb. Had he no decency? No compassion toward children that should be an inherent part in all living beings? Her thoughts coiling up tighter into a tangle of fury, Líadan fought the surge of magic heading for her hands. If Malcolm was as angry as they were, his templar skills certainly wouldn’t be used to stop her or Velanna should they choose to exercise their talents on the criminal in front of them. More than likely, he’d just be encouraging them instead.

With satisfaction, Líadan saw a wet stain appear at the front of Gethin’s trousers. And in the near-silent room, the patter of liquid hitting the polished stone floor was heard throughout.

“Oh, you pissed yourself, did you?” called out Anders. “Well done.”

“Wardens,” Riordan said quietly, “stand down.”

Reluctantly and very slowly, Líadan and Malcolm took a step back, never breaking their deathly glares fixed on Gethin. One of the guards said to the criminal, “You’re lucky the commander called them off. They could’ve ripped you apart with their bare hands. They kill the nastiest beasts you could ever imagine for a living. Two of them killed the archdemon. They’re no little defenseless little girls, you coward.”

Líadan noticed that Velanna had yet to back off. Instead, green, magical energy had started to crackle into life around her clenched hands. Malcolm shot an alarmed look in Líadan’s direction before quickly moving forward to stand beside Velanna. Wisely refraining from touching her, lest that set her off, Malcolm whispered to her, “Please don’t make me smite you.”

“He’s one of the reasons my niece is dead,” Velanna snarled back.

“I know. I want to kill him almost as badly as you do. I hate bullies and bastards like him. However, if your people are ever going to be treated fairly in this country, you can’t harm him, or you’ll just be perpetuating the stereotype, and things will never change.”

Gethin’s eyes frantically moved back and forth between the prince and the Dalish elf as they spoke. He was visibly trembling.

Velanna sneered at the man, and then looked at Malcolm. “Fine. You... what you say makes sense, as much as I dislike it.” Then she turned to Gethin. “You’re lucky this shem has the ability to stop my magic, or I never would’ve listened, _dashinlen_.”

In spite of the tense situation, Líadan nearly snorted with laughter. Velanna had just called the criminal a little man-child. Considering the circumstances and the puddle under his feet, very appropriate. She glanced at Riordan and saw the near-amusement in his eyes as well. Velanna finally stepped back and stood next to Líadan, Malcolm following, letting go of a long breath. Riordan gave Velanna a faint nod of approval when she glanced over at him. Then the Warden Commander turned to address Gethin and the audience gathered in the main hall. “Gethin of Navan, for the crime of kidnapping a child, you are hereby sentenced to death by hanging at dawn tomorrow.”

“What?” Gethin shouted. “You can’t do this!”

“Oh, but the commander very much can,” Varel said with a hint of smugness. He nodded at the guards and they set to dragging the struggling Gethin out of the hall. As they walked through the parting crowd, more than one person spit on him. Varel then announced, “This session of the arling’s court is over. Everyone clear out.” Before the room cleared, Riordan signaled to Varel, and then at the magistrate. Varel stepped out and pulled Navan’s magistrate aside. “I believe the commander would like to speak with you further.”

The man’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Have I done something wrong?”

Riordan stepped down off the dais. “No, you’ve done nothing wrong. I just have some additional questions about what happened with the girl and the templars that have nothing to do with the kidnapper.”

“Oh. Well, certainly, Commander.” The magistrate gave a short bow.

“Please, follow me.” Riordan walked toward one of the side doors. Líadan figured they’d go to one of the meeting rooms near the main hall and not up to Riordan’s study. She followed the commander and the magistrate, along with everyone else who’d gone to the Wending Wood. No one objected to their presence and once they’d all filed into the room, Varel stepped back outside and shut the door behind him.

The Wardens all either found seats or leaned against bookshelves or the wall. Malcolm and Líadan, along with Velanna, were too keyed up to sit and remained standing next to the door. The magistrate kept casting nervous looks at the two Dalish elves, at Malcolm, and at Riordan. Líadan couldn’t figure out which of them frightened the poor man more, and wished he wasn’t scared of any of them. None of them were mad at him at all, especially since he’d been instrumental in bringing Gethin to justice. 

“Please,” Riordan said to the magistrate as he dropped into a chair at the head of the long table. “Have a seat. Do you need anything?”

“I, um, no, Warden Commander. I’m fine.”

The commander gave him a sincere, friendly smile. It seemed incongruous to Líadan a little, as Riordan had just sentenced a man to death only moments before. However, the guy deserved it. More than deserved it, in her opinion. “There’s no need to be nervous. I just wanted some additional details about the templars who passed through your village. Have you anything to offer?”

The magistrate rubbed at his chin. “Well, first thing we all noticed was that they were Orlesian.”

Malcolm swore under his breath and turned, Líadan presumed in order to start pacing. She knew that would only make things more tense than they already needlessly were.

So she reached out and grasped his forearm, bringing him to a halt. “Don’t,” she said, pitching her voice so only she, Malcolm, and probably Velanna, could hear. “It will make that poor man more nervous than he already is.”

He sighed and stopped pulling away. “You’re right.”

She left her hand on his arm for a moment longer than truly necessary, and then drew it away. Velanna noticed and smirked at her, apparently not angry enough with Gethin to forget her needling. With no small amount of difficulty, Líadan forced her anger into submission.

“Anything else?” Riordan asked the magistrate. “Such as names or mentioning what they were doing in Ferelden?”

“For a few of them. There were four of them, total, but only three of them gave their names. Of the men, there was a Ser Simon and a Ser Donatien and the last never said anything about a name. And there was a woman among them, too, I think she was the one in charge. Her name was Ser Ava.” He pursed his lips as he sought to recall details. “Before they rode toward the Wood, they asked about a maleficar named Morrigan. You know—”

“Andraste’s flaming _ass_ ,” Malcolm said, and stalked from the room.

“... the witch from the Blight,” the magistrate finished, warily looking in the direction of the door Malcolm had just stormed through. When no one mentioned Malcolm’s abrupt departure, the magistrate finally returned to Riordan. “I told the templars the truth, that we’d never seen her, and that we’d only heard of her. I told them about the rumor of her being with child.” He sighed and shifted uncomfortably in the wooden chair. “And one of the older ladies nearby saw fit to inform the templars of the rumors of who the father of the witch’s child is.”

Riordan looked puzzled. “What rumor is that?”

The magistrate blinked in disbelief. “You haven’t heard it?”

“The darkspawn aren’t much for gossiping,” said Riordan.

“Well, they didn’t used to be, anyway,” Líadan heard Anders whisper to Nathaniel, who snorted.

Riordan shot them a glare telling them to shut it. Nathaniel looked properly abashed, while Anders just grinned. 

After casting entirely confused looks at the other Wardens, the magistrate said, “Well, begging your pardon, Warden Commander, rumor has it that the witch’s child was sired by the prince.”

Anders burst out laughing. “Oh, he’ll _love_ that one when we tell him.”

“I volunteer you for that job,” said Nathaniel.

The Warden Commander let out a weary sigh and didn’t bother admonishing the other Wardens. Instead, he kept his attention on the magistrate. “Anything else?”

The magistrate squirmed again, glancing quickly over at Líadan and away again. She frowned. What was that about? “Well,” the man said, “one of the other women blessedly told the first one to be quiet, and then not-so-blessedly told the templars about the other rumor.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” said Riordan. “But please, tell me, what’s this other rumor?”

The magistrate shot _another_ look at Líadan. She’d let more than one pass and wasn’t about to let the looks continue any longer. “What?” she said, crossing her arms and employing the intimidating look Anders accused her of using so often. Since the magistrate wasn’t one of her fellow Wardens, he cowered.

“I... um...” He swallowed noisily and turned to Riordan. “The other is that the prince is... is actually involved with...” The magistrate then slowly turned his head toward Líadan, apparently unable to speak the actual words.

“What?” she snapped. “Are you saying that... they think... him... _me_?”

By then, Anders was doubled over with laughter, Nathaniel openly chuckling, Oghren guffawing and slapping his thighs, and Velanna smirking yet again. Riordan, at least, seemed sympathetic and only slightly amused at her predicament. Meanwhile, Líadan wanted to die. Her cheeks felt like they were on fire and she wanted to kill every laughing person in this room and then crawl under the closest rock and just die. “Creators take you all,” she said, and stalked out the room the same way as Malcolm had moments before.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

“Calenhad’s legend tells that Lady Shayna harbored a love for her king that went beyond friendship, a love that she had kept secret out of her sense of duty and honor. When offered a love potion by a witch in disguise—a witch who would later turn out to be the vengeance-seeking sister of Arl Simeon—Lady Shayna gave in to temptation. She used the potion on Calenhad, but Queen Mairyn discovered the two of them together that night, and, broken-hearted, fled Denerim to return to her father. She told Myrddin everything, and he angrily threatened to revoke his support of Calenhad and begin anew the civil war.

It is said that Lady Shayna felt remorseful of her manipulation of her best friend’s heart and confessed her use of forbidden magic to the court. Although her life was forfeit, Calenhad forgave Lady Shayna for what she had done and refused to have her executed. Myrddin furiously roused the other arls against Calenhad and Lady Shayna, and it was not long before Ferelden stood on the brink of civil war once again.

Against Calenhad’s orders, Lady Shayna went alone to Mairyn to plead for peace and plead her case, only to be found out by Myrddin and slain. Angered but also saddened, Calenhad challenged Myrddin to an honor duel, a fight neither of them wanted but both knew was necessary, and Myrddin was slain. The death of the king’s greatest ally, an important arl, was too much for the young kingdom to bear. The other arls would not back down in their claims against Calenhad. The threat of civil war rose once again. Calenhad went to his wife one last time then, although none knew what he said to her, and then he simply vanished. He left with Mairyn a proclamation abdicating his throne in favor of the son his queen carried in her belly, who eventually ascended the throne as King Weylan I, the king credited with establishing the Theirin dynasty lasting to this day. Calenhad would never reappear.

The legend of Calenhad himself only grew over time, as stories and sightings multiplied, even long after the point when Calenhad could possibly still be alive. Some say he disappeared into the Korcari Wilds or went to live with the dwarves or became a monk in a reclusive Chantry order. The Chantry named Calenhad one of the Anointed in 7:88 Storm. Calenhad’s sword, Nemetos, was left with Mairyn and became a symbol of Ferelden kingship over the next century.  Rumors of its magical powers grew, and when it was lost in the ambush that killed King Venedrin in 8:24 Blessed, it was seen as a great blow to the Theirin line. Several false swords have appeared since then, but never has the true sword resurfaced.”

—from _The Legend of Calenhad_ by Brother Herren, Chantry scribe, 8:10 Blessed

**Malcolm**

The vultures were circling.

That’s the way he saw it, anyhow, with the templars. Well, the templars and the possible Tevinters and the Architect and the Mother and the Wardens all searching for Morrigan. Vultures, all of them, including himself. Out in the yard, he found the main gates open and a steady stream of people leaving the Vigil, returning to their homes after the arl’s court. Some caught sight of him, a few nodded, others smiled, and the rest unabashedly stared. He fought to keep his face blank, as these people had no idea what really went on behind the scenes and didn’t deserve to suffer from his foul mood. They either stared because he was one of the Wardens who fought the archdemon or because he looked like his brother the king. Either way, it wouldn’t do to be wearing the scowl he wanted to be wearing. These poor people—or perhaps lucky—didn’t even know that a Blight might truly not have been stopped. That perhaps another Blight awaited them, not a century or four in the future, but within months.

He sighed, and then started an ascent toward the Vigil’s highest tower. That’d give him some peace and get him away from the throngs of people in the normally much-quieter yard. There was no telling how long the meeting with the magistrate would end up taking, and whenever it was finished, enough of the Wardens there would know where to look for him. Already in one of the less-traveled corridors, the scowl quickly found Malcolm’s face once again. He should’ve stayed for the rest of Riordan’s chat with the magistrate, but he just hadn’t been able to force himself to do it. He already needed to ready himself for whatever waited in their short jaunt  into the Deep Roads later, hope that Líadan wouldn’t kill _him_ while they were there, and hope that Líadan and Velanna wouldn’t kill each _other_ down there, either. Adding in more Morrigan issues—because he seriously needed more—wasn’t something he felt necessary. 

It stood to reason that the female templar, Ser Ava, was still with the darkspawn. The Architect, specifically, and most likely turned like Seranni had been. If she was lucky, well, given that she’d already had bad luck in being abducted by the previously non-hostage-taking darkspawn, that’s all that would’ve happened. With luck, she wouldn’t be a broodmother. But when it came to darkspawn, Malcolm never had been able to think positively. They would see, he supposed, once they finally caught up to the Architect. Obviously the emissary had free reign of the Deep Roads along the entire northern coast of Ferelden if he could move his troops from Highever to the Wending Wood without attracting any attention aside from outright attacks. With Kal’Hirol being closer to Vigil’s Keep, Malcolm figured that the Mother’s darkspawn held up there. And judging by what Sigrun had described, the Architect’s darkspawn and the Mother’s darkspawn weren’t fans of one another. He smiled ruefully. Maybe a little like the Tevinter mages and the Chantry templars. Not fans at all.

He cursed the templars out loud in the empty corridor. Then he found the tower’s door, shouldered through it, and jogged up the spiral staircase to the top of the tower. Looking north, toward the Waking Sea, he could see a storm front forming on the horizon. The skies above the Vigil were still a clear blue, but the slate gray clouds gathering over the ocean spoke of possible snows later. Comparing the clouds to what he’d seen many times at home in Highever, the storm wouldn’t be bad. Light snow, maybe, probably not even sticking. Knowing they had to travel, Malcolm was grateful for that at least. He needed the heavy snows to continue holding off until he could close that Deep Roads entrance in Drake’s Fall and secure Highever. Then the sky could snow all it wanted to for all he cared. He’d be working in the Deep Roads, searching out the Architect and the Mother and putting an end to them before they could find Morrigan. 

It had surprised him, when they’d first been told the story at Weisshaupt, that the Wardens hadn’t immediately gone after the Architect when he’d first disappeared all those years ago. Sure, the Order still took another year after the ill-fated trip with King Maric and a small party of Wardens to the Deep Roads to be welcomed back into Ferelden, but they could’ve gone through Orzammar. With Orzammar’s surface entrance being in Gherlen’s Pass, Wardens could easily cross from Orlais and go into the dwarven city with no one being the wiser. They’d been doing it for two centuries anyway, given that Wardens still had to undergo the Calling, and Kal-Sharok under the Hunterhorn Mountains had no surface entrance. Instead, they’d not bothered searching. Sure, they had set Fiona to researching the issue for a couple decades, but no one had ever chased after the Architect to make sure he didn’t find one of the Old Gods and start a Blight. Maybe they just figured Bregan hadn’t told the emissary the location of the Old Gods.

Nah. Anders Wardens could never be that optimistic. Malcolm didn’t think even Sigrun or Alistair could be that optimistic about it, and they were the two most positive thinking Grey Wardens he knew. And for all they knew, the Architect had been the one to waken and taint Urthemiel. Though it made no sense, because the Architect had said he wanted to kill the Old Gods, not wake them up. Even the story of Dane had him delivering the dragon’s killing blow _before_ it woke up. Wasn’t that the point of looking for monsters while they were asleep? So that you could kill them without a fight? Malcolm supposed that the Architect could’ve tried. But, he was a darkspawn, and once he found the Old God, he tainted it. Malcolm was pretty sure that being tainted would wake you up from any sleep. Of course, it then knocked you out, but having gone through the process himself, he was fairly certain it would’ve woken him up had he not already been conscious. And if someone had awakened him from a thousand-year sleep just to taint him, he’d be pretty pissed, too, just like the archdemons were.

The wind blew in from the sea, carrying a welcome scent to Malcolm as he leaned against the parapet and studied the yard far below. The steady stream of people had been reduced to a trickle. Soon enough, the Vigil would be empty except for its normal contingent of guards, Wardens, and servants. With any luck, they’d have some people survive the Joining they’d hold later. Malcolm hadn’t been all that surprised that the three soldiers who’d accompanied them to the Wending Wood had volunteered to become full Wardens. They’d reacted with almost as much anger and indignance over what’d happened with the darkspawn there as the Wardens had. They wanted to get even, but they’d said they wouldn’t be able to fully get even unless they were Grey Wardens. Their reasoning had even somewhat sounded like Velanna’s, though with a lot less of the crazy.

Malcolm cursed again. And there was Riordan, trying to be his sneaky bastard self and making it so that he and Líadan would learn to get along with Velanna. Though, part of it had to be because Malcolm had templar abilities, and if Velanna really did tweak out again, he could put a stop to it. Of course, if it’d been over anything like had happened earlier in the main hall with that little weasel Gethin, he wouldn’t have put a stop to anything. He’d wanted to cheer her on, not haul her back. But the Dalish suffered enough from human racism, bias, and ridiculously stupid untrue stories that children were almost always told for a good scare. Even the Chantry had taken back the good things the elves had done, entirely striking the Canticle of Shartan from the Chant of Light because the elves had the audacity to not become Andrastians. Shartan and his elves had stuck by Andraste longer than any other contingent, including her betrayer of an earthly husband. They were rewarded with land and freedom for the first time in centuries, but they weren’t to be left alone. The Chantry decided they had to be Andrastians, and when they resisted, the Chantry forced the issue with an Exalted March, and battled the Dalish into submission. A lot like Tevinter had done long before to Arlathan, only with elves becoming lower-class servants instead of slaves, or destined to live as nomads in the forests of Thedas, never with a permanent home. 

Though Gethin had entirely deserved whatever nasty, bloody death Velanna could’ve given him, a Dalish elf killing a human man in front of an audience wouldn’t have done much to improve the image of her kind. Líadan had done a lot—though, knowing her, she probably would never admit it—to improve humanity’s image of the Dalish because she’d helped fight the archdemon. Not only helped to fight the archdemon, but fought alongside the Fereldan king. Strangers could usually vaguely recognize her, and if she was with him or Alistair, they could almost always figure out who she was. He supposed if Velanna lived through the Joining, Líadan might some day be offended when someone saw a tattooed Dalish elf with the Fereldan Wardens and assumed it was Líadan, when it was really Velanna. Malcolm felt fairly certain that Velanna would live through the ritual, so he had no doubt that Velanna would continue to be trouble well into the future. She was too stubborn and irritating not to. As for the three soldiers, he really had no idea. They could go either way and they’d just have to see where the men fell, so to speak.

As a group, they would have to keep a lookout for Ser Ava while they were in the Deep Roads later. As she’d saved a child from a great misery, all while simply trying to return the child to her mother, she deserved whatever mercy the Wardens could afford to give. He hoped they would be able to help her and that it wouldn’t be long in coming, but hope by itself wasn’t worth much. After a final wistful look towards Highever, Malcolm descended off the tower and went in search of the Wardens and recruits he needed to bring with him to the Deep Roads. Best get that little trip over with as soon as possible. That, and killing darkspawn might improve his mood. 

When he opened the door from the bottom room of the tower to the connecting corridor and stepped through, he practically walked right into Líadan. She managed to stop right before they collided and glared at him for nearly running into her. “We need to go to the Deep Roads,” she said without preamble.

Malcolm willed his frustration to stay under the surface. After all, he was the one who owed her an apology for earlier, and not the other way around. This wasn’t the woman he was angry with and he really needed to remember that. “I know. That’s why I was coming down.”

“I went up that tower once. It’s... really high up.” Líadan started walking back down the hallway toward the yard.

He gave her a sidelong glance, unable to keep from smiling a little. “You don’t like heights? How did I not know this?”

“Because I didn’t tell you, because I knew you’d react just like you are right now.”

“It isn’t like you wouldn’t deserve any crap I’d give you, since you’re so nice to me about the whole spider thing. Oh, wait. No, you aren’t nice to me about that at _all_. I’m starting to see all sorts of really high up assignments in your future. Ones where you have to look down all the time. From really high up.”

She pursed her lips and glared at the corridor ahead. “You know, I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but...”

He was being baited and he knew it, and yet he couldn’t stand not knowing whatever it was she was holding back. “Tell me what?”

“I don’t know. It could really change your perspective on things.”

“You’re killing me.”

She smirked. “I know.” Once he gave her another pleading look, she relented. “Okay, fine. So, you know how Morrigan could shapeshift?”

Líadan was voluntarily bringing up Morrigan? He desperately wanted to make that point, but wanted to know where she was going this even more. “Yes,” he finally replied, with more than a little trepidation.

“And you know the different shapes she takes?”

He frowned. “Well, yeah. We all saw them. A bear, a wolf, and a crow.” In fact, whenever he saw or heard a crow above, he thought of her, and wondered if the bird was truly a bird, or if it was indeed Morrigan.

“There’s one she never let you see and everyone was sworn to never tell you.”

“You realize you’re starting to sound like Oghren, right?” 

“Fine, I won’t tell you.” Líadan rounded the corner, clamping her mouth shut.

He followed her, realizing he’d fallen into the familiar trap of teasing her when she had some hold of mocking information over him, where if he’d just keep his mouth shut and played along, he could’ve been free of said hold. “Okay, okay, I take it back. You’re nothing like Oghren.” She slowly turned to look at him, eyebrow still arched expectantly, and he didn’t fail to deliver. “I mean, your beard isn’t _nearly_ long enough. No braids at all, even.”

Her emerald eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly, yet he was fairly certain he saw the corner of her mouth twitch in amusement, like she was holding in a laugh. At least, he hoped so, because otherwise, she was going to kill him in about five seconds.

“I’m also not nearly drunk enough,” she said, and then grinned. “Creators, how he manages to fight like he does when most people would be passed out for days with the same level of alcohol in their bodies, I’ll never know.”

“To be fair, we do have to point him in the right direction or he’d be just as liable to chop your kneecaps off,” Malcolm replied, not really bothering to hide his relief that Líadan hadn’t done anything spectacularly violent in retaliation for his previous comment. Then he glanced over at the woman walking beside him, taking note that she barely reached his shoulders. “Well, my kneecaps. _You_ he’d end up clipping at the waist. If that.”

A leather-gauntleted fist landed on his kidney. “We work with dwarves,” Líadan pointed out as he gasped in pain, “so height jokes involving elves aren’t nearly as funny as you think.”

He rubbed at his back, wishing she hadn’t been smart enough to zero in on such a painful blow. Then again, he entirely deserved it. “I don’t know. Your face was pretty funny. Yeah, was worth it.” He quickly threw out his hands. “Please don’t hit me again.”

She rolled her eyes. “Like I’d do that when you were expecting it. Please. I’ll just wait until you forget—again—that you’ve annoyed me, and strike then.”

“Speaking of annoyed,” he said, “what’s Velanna been saying to you that gets you so worked up?” Because, he thought, him merely bringing up the subject totally wouldn’t get Líadan angry with him once again. Not at all.

Líadan stopped and spun on her heel to face him. He caught the tail end of looks he’d caught glimpses of before from her, ones where she invariably changed the subject or chased him away or both. Then she composed her face to be resolute and invulnerable, the familiar ‘I am Dalish’ look that told him she was doing her best to be strong, yet inside, felt anything but. “No,” she finally said, but not unkindly. “I’m not telling you. Go ask Velanna.”

“Aw, come on.” He gave her the best pleading look he had in his arsenal. If only he was as good with the puppy dog eyes as Alistair was. “If I go ask her, she’ll just laugh at me.”

She shrugged, holding out her hands. “Then try to remember the words and go get a book and teach yourself Elvish. Or convince Riordan or Fiona to teach you, since I’m certain Velanna won’t. And neither will I. But you’re good at languages, so it shouldn’t be hard. I mean, _your_ Orlesian accent is apparently spot-on.”

He flung a hand to his chest, fingers splayed over his heart. “Oh, ow. I deserved that. But, damn, you were saving that one, weren’t you? Just waiting for the perfect time for me to stumble right into it.” He almost teasingly called her evil, but held back. With how she’d looked a moment ago, she could mistakenly take it to heart, and make her mad at him all over again. Or even worse, make her angry with herself.

She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, as to what I was saying before? Morrigan had one more form. A giant spider. A giant, poisonous spider.”

“She... what...” He gaped at her, because he couldn’t fathom doing anything else. Andraste help him, a spider? He’d rather a dragon. Anything other than a Maker-forsaken, giant, thaig-crawling, man-mauling, hideous, nightmarish, hairy _spider_. 

A belly laugh from Líadan jolted him out of his shock. “Okay, now I see what you mean by the faces I make being worth it. Because that face you just made? Totally worth it.”

And they were even going into the Deep Roads in a little while! He scowled at her and abandoned his earlier restraint. “I hate you. You’re a bad person.”

It only made her laugh harder. 

He crossed his arms and glared at her as he waited for her to recover. After a few minutes she got the giggles under control. “Are you quite done?” he asked.

“For now, I guess,” she replied, and then smothered another bubbling laugh.

Malcolm grunted and resumed walking towards the dining hall, figuring they’d stumble across Wardens searching for the same meal his stomach currently grumbled for. They could eat, pick up the other Wardens and the recruits, and then hit the Deep Roads and be back before dinner. Maybe. He’d yet to have a trip like that with the Deep Roads, if that could even exist. But in Orzammar, it seemed like dwarves did that sort of thing every day when exploring the old, abandoned thaigs closer to the main dwarven city. They found Oghren and Anders already seated and eating, talking animatedly with Nathaniel and Sigrun. “We should bring Anders with us,” Malcolm said as they walked over to the table to find seats near the others.

Líadan frowned at a perceived insult as she dropped into the empty spot next to Sigrun. “Why? I’m a mage. Velanna is a mage. Why do you need a third mage?”

“Because Anders can heal people,” Malcolm replied, reluctantly taking the only remaining seat next to Oghren. “You can’t. Velanna can’t.”

The elf tore her roll in half, almost as a threat. “Because we’re good at other types of magic. The kind that involves, um... killing, I suppose.”

Malcolm took some solace of safety in numbers, even as the rest of the eating Wardens waited for the coming spectacle if he kept this line of discussion going. “You know, you Dalish mages aren’t very well rounded. Almost every other mage I know can heal _and_ kill stuff like darkspawn. Morrigan, a scary Witch of the Wilds? Even she could heal.”

Líadan paused briefly as she cut her food, back stiffening at the mention of Morrigan, but quickly recovered. “And probably boil you from the inside, too.”

“Aye,” said Oghren, “but the lad would think that boiling to be a good thing.”

As Líadan glared at the dwarf, Malcolm continued, “Fiona can heal. And fight really well. And there’s Wynne! She was old and could heal awesomely—”

Anders perked up and jumped in. “Wait, is this Wynne the Circle mage you’re talking about? Tall for a woman, white hair, _fantastic_ rack for her age—or any age, really, I think she does it with magic—and so special that the Fade shines out of her bum? That Wynne?”

Despite her growing anger, Líadan snorted at the description, while Malcolm held back a loud laugh. “I think that’s probably the same mage, yes.” He could definitely see someone describing Wynne with that Fade comment. Yes, indeed.

“You know, the Antivan did constantly say that Wynne had a magical bosom,” said Oghren after a pull of ale. 

“I’m inclined to believe it,” Anders replied. “It isn’t natural on a woman her age. You’d think the templars would’ve noticed, but they’re templars, I suppose. Maybe they wouldn’t really know the difference or be looking too closely. I wonder what kind of spell it would take to accomplish something like that. Or maybe they were just naturally magical.”

Malcolm realized that Zevran would’ve gotten along with Anders far, far too well. Most likely, there wouldn’t have been a woman left unscandalized in all of Ferelden, and probably well over half the men. Some of Anders’ pick up lines made him miss his friend, either through the laughter they caused or by how racy they could be. No one else in their little group from the Blight ever had the sort of gumption Zevran had had, and certainly not when it had anything to do with sexuality. Leliana was a close second, but she was much more sneaky about it, and could be tripped up into more mundane descriptions when surprised. Not Zevran. Zevran had always defaulted to racy. He held back a smile as he remembered the time Leliana had caught Alistair sneaking across camp after seeing Morrigan for something completely innocent, but Alistair hadn’t wanted to wake anyone, not knowing that the bard was already awake and watching. Malcolm had been at the fire and heard the entire thing. She’d stammered, and then eventually accused Alistair of wading in Morrigan’s swamp. That had made Malcolm burst into laughter, both at the metaphor and seeing Leliana so uncharacteristically awkward. And then, of course, laughing at the idea of Alistair doing anything remotely romantic in regards to Morrigan. 

His laughter had served to make Leliana angry with him instead of Alistair, allowing his brother the opportunity to explain without a flustered bard trying to cause him bodily harm. When Malcolm had told Morrigan about the incident later, she’d laughed so hard that she’d clutched at her sides like they were liable to split apart. 

Then Malcolm realized that most of the people in the memory were gone. Zevran had died fighting the archdemon. Leliana had died because of the taint sickness brought on by a bite from a genlock. Alistair was alive, but as king, was barely around more than their two dead friends. And then there was Morrigan. Alive, when in popular opinion, she should’ve been killed. Alive but not around, never to be seen again, yet holding the key to a possible coming apocalypse. And certainly not someone with whom he could share an amusing story and a good laugh. He blinked and frowned, refocusing his eyes from when he’d zoned out into his memories. 

Líadan was studying him as their friends conversed around them, a question of concern in her eyes. When he looked at her, she raised an eyebrow, asking if he was okay. Somehow, she cared, even though he’d gone to those great lengths to piss her off earlier that day, and had yet to even apologize. Then again, she could’ve been simultaneously planning some sort of awful revenge. He wouldn’t put it past her, and in all honesty, he would’ve been disappointed if she wasn’t. But there it was again. She cared and she was here with him. He gave her a slight shrug and went back to his food. Not something he wanted to address that day. Or, as it seemed, ever. 

“So, Malcolm,” said Anders. “You missed out on the best part of the talk with the magistrate, you know.” From the singsong lilt to the mage’s voice, Malcolm had a fairly good idea that whatever Anders wanted to talk about would be embarrassing to at least one of the Wardens present. Then the mage jumped in his seat, like he’d been kicked under the table. A glance over at Líadan, revealing the elf giving Anders a scathing glare, practically proved that Anders had indeed been kicked. Anders frowned at her, but something in her eyes softened for a fleeting moment, and the mage relented with sigh. “Oh, fine. Spoilsport.”

“Your sad looks won’t work on me, elf,” said Oghren, pushing away his empty plate and turning to face Malcolm. “So what Sparklefingers here was going—”

Líadan stood up suddenly. “I’ll go find Velanna and those recruits. I’ll meet you at the Deep Roads door as soon as I find them.” Before Malcolm could answer, she’d turned and almost run from the room. 

Malcolm stared after her. “Did she just voluntarily go look for Velanna?” Then he slowly turned to peer curiously at Oghren. “I missed something here. What did I miss?”

The dwarf considered Malcolm for a moment before glancing over at Anders. “What do I tell him first?”

“Oh, let’s do chronological order,” he answered.

“Right.” Oghren looked back at Malcolm. “So after you left in your ‘everyone on the whole sodding surface world is trying to find and kill my ex’ snit, that magistrate told us a few really juicy rumors that are apparently flying around among all you humans. Now, the first one is that Morrigan is with child, which we already knew. The _second_ rumor is—”

Malcolm held up a hand. “Wait, wait. I got this one. Let me guess. The second one is that I’m the father of the unborn child. Have I got it right?” It wasn’t anything new nor was it unexpected. He’d spent a year traveling with Morrigan and the others. For the last few months of the Blight, they’d had a large contingent of soldiers traveling with them who would’ve figured out he and Morrigan had something going on. Plus, there were all the arguments between him and Eamon about Morrigan in Redcliffe Castle and Eamon’s Denerim estate that plenty of servants and guards and guests overheard. That rumors would follow that he was the child’s father in the wake of all that knowledge wasn’t that much of a stretch at all. Were the rumors anything else, they would’ve had to suspect the presence of a spy within their ranks.

Oghren looked a bit crestfallen that Malcolm had already figured out his newly acquired rumor. “Well, yes. You’re not very fun sometimes, you know that? Need to get some good ale in you again, I think.”

“Third rumor, don’t forget that one,” said Anders. “After all, it _is_ why our lovely elven friend left the room.”

The dwarf chuckled. “Oh yeah.” Then he started laughing harder. “You should’ve seen her face when she heard this one, too. I’ve never seen her turn that color in all the time I’ve known her. So the magistrate, so he says that the other rumor going around that possibly contradicts the second one is that you’re with...” and he broke down into uproarious laughter.

“With?” Malcolm asked, fearing that he already damn well knew the answer, and that entirely answered why Eamon was acting angry when it came to Líadan.

Oghren, now so caught up with laughing that he couldn’t speak, waved in Anders’ direction, telling him to relay the news to Malcolm. Still, even though his body was wracked with laughter, Oghren managed to fetch the flask out from wherever he kept it in his beard.

“With Líadan of course,” Anders said overly brightly. “When she heard, first all the blood drained from her face. Then she turned the most brilliant shade of red I’ve ever had the luxury of seeing in my entire life. It was quite a sight to behold. Once she got control of her faculties again, she cursed us all and stormed out of the room a lot like you did. The magistrate didn’t really have anything else to add after she left, though. It was pretty much a ‘I hope I didn’t offend the prince too badly’ and ‘she’s not going to hunt me down and kill me, is she?’ wind-down before he left the Vigil for Navan. Anyway, we weren’t surprised to see the two of you come strolling in here together. You probably had a lot to work out with each other, if you know what I’m saying.”

That entirely explained why Líadan had so nicely kicked Anders for trying to bring up the subject. And, of course, why Oghren and Anders had both been so eager to bring it up in the first place.

“Oh, they didn’t work out anything,” said Oghren. “Tension’s still there. We should just lock ‘em in a room until they knock boots. That ought to do it.”

“They _are_ going into the Deep Roads later,” said Sigrun.

Oghren’s eyebrows raised like he’d made a delightful discovery and he turned to look at Sigrun. “Oh? In the Deep Roads, eh? You know, I’d like to play in your Deep Roads later. So, what are you doing tonight?”

Sigrun glared at him. “Sleeping. Alone. With a knife under my pillow.”

“Hot,” Oghren said, and then snickered.

That earned him an eye roll from the female dwarf. “Honestly, Oghren. What’s the point? I’m a Grey Warden. I’m in the Legion of the Dead. Nothing between us will last.”

“Exactly!” He held out one hand, palm up. “All the fun,” he said, and then held up the other hand. “None of the commitment! Best of both worlds, if you ask me.”

“You weren’t asked,” said Nathaniel.

“I’m never asked. Sad, really. Good thing I speak up anyway. Otherwise, you’d all be missing out.” Oghren extended his flask to Nathaniel, who quickly and politely turned it down.

Malcolm abandoned his seat and the conversation, meal finished and duty summoning him to other activities. That, and he really didn’t want to keep listening to Oghren and Anders and probably the other two and whoever else happened to wander into the dining hall talk about what’d happened after the arl’s court. He’d find Líadan and Velanna and gather up the three other recruits and go kill some darkspawn in the Deep Roads and attend a Joining and call it a day. Then he could just collapse into bed and fall into a hopefully dreamless sleep and forget about everything until something forced him out of bed in the morning and everything started all over again. When he reached the doorway, he turned around and looked at Anders.

“You’re going to make me work now, aren’t you?” he said, rising from his seat. “Because Líadan and Velanna are talentless hacks?”

“I dare you to say that to their faces,” Malcolm replied, already hearing Líadan’s distinctive footfalls approaching from down the hall.

“Talentless hack?” Líadan said, coming around the corner. “Did you seriously just call me a talentless hack?”

Anders’ eyes opened slightly wider, and then quickly narrowed in Malcolm’s direction as he realized that the other man had known Líadan had been within earshot. Then he looked over at the elf in question, only to discover that the other had appeared as well, and was even more annoyed. 

“Talentless hack? My fireballs are bigger than yours,” Velanna told Anders. “Care for a demonstration?”

“No. There’s no need. Besides, it’s not the size that counts, Velanna,” Anders replied.

She arched an eyebrow. “Did they tell you that in your Circle? They were trying not to hurt your feelings.”

Anders gasped theatrically. “The Circle _lied_ to me? Andraste’s sword, my world is falling apart! I have been unmanned!”

With a sniff, Velanna turned back toward the hallway. “There’s no need to mock me.”

“To be fair, you started it, dear lady. But, if you insist on the truth, I will agree to it.” Anders stepped between Malcolm and Líadan, following Velanna down the corridor. 

“You heard us coming and you did nothing to stop him from saying that,” Líadan said to Malcolm. “You wanted him to put his foot in his mouth.”

“Honestly, I was hoping for a better show than that,” he replied. “That was remarkably tame, and a little boring, actually. No magic, no punches thrown. Yeah, kind of lame.”

Líadan leaned against the doorframe, mischievous smirk plying at her lips and she studied him for a moment. Then she offered, “I could throw a punch laced with magic, if you like. Of course, it wouldn’t be aimed at Anders, it’d be aimed at you, but you’d get the magical punches, at least, right?”

He scowled at her, and then started down the corridor, realizing they needed to catch up to Anders and Velanna and locate the other three recruits. That, and he wanted to make sure Líadan didn’t make good on her threat, not that she couldn’t easily do so within moments of catching up herself. “Wasn’t the bit with the spider enough for a day? Seriously? I don’t think you realize quite how traumatized I am.”

“I still can’t figure out how someone who fights darkspawn for a living is so easily frightened by tiny little spiders.”

“They aren’t _little_. That’s my point.” Truth be told, he didn’t much like the smaller varieties of spider, either. But if that became well known, he’d constantly be finding spiders in his bedsheets in the name of practical jokes.

“Still less frightening than darkspawn.”

He sighed. “Anyway, you didn’t happen to run into those three soldiers, did you? What were their names? Tiernan, Otho, and...” He struggled to remember the last guy’s name. “Starts with a K, I think. Maybe.”

“Kevin?”

Malcolm shrugged. “You say that like I can confirm if you’re right or not. I’m lucky enough to remember the other two names, much less the third.”

“They should be waiting for us outside the Deep Roads entrance.”

He nodded, and they continued their walk in companionable silence. Having run out of things to mock one another with, and neither one of them being willing to discuss anything remotely serious, that left them with silence. At least, he supposed, it was a comfortable, friendly one and not awkward and oppressive, like it usually was. They found Anders and Velanna chatting with the dwarves outside the Deep Roads gate, the three soldier recruits milling nearby. Well, Anders was chatting, while Velanna stood there and looked intimidating. Once Malcolm and Líadan arrived, the dwarves went about showing them how to operate the three different sealing doors and their respective locks. Malcolm verbally made note of his admiration of the ingenuity of the dwarves. Ever since his trip to Orzammar, he’d been appreciative of the dwarves and their inventiveness. The fine workings of his set of heavy chainmail given to him by King Endrin attested to that fact, especially since it had survived an encounter with an archdemon virtually unscathed. And then when he’d found the water rune in the washbasin at Weisshaupt, he’d practically fallen in love. 

Yet in the rush to get from Weisshaupt to Highever, Malcolm had entirely forgotten to ask the First Warden about getting some of the runes for Ferelden. Damn. Maybe he could write to King Endrin and see if he could procure some of those runes for the Vigil, and pretty much anywhere else he could think of. Perhaps they could even come up with a way to have a portable one for trips in the Deep Roads. That would be awesome, in every sense of the word, to have an unlimited supply of fresh, clean water in the nasty, murky Deep Roads.

The dwarves opened the third gate and as it swung inward, Malcolm felt a light pull of the taint. Apparently they wouldn’t have to go far to procure the darkspawn blood for these recruits. He motioned to the others, bode farewell to the dwarves, drew his weapons, and started off in the direction of the small band of darkspawn.

“You already feel them, too?” Líadan asked.

Malcolm nodded. “Small group. You?”

“Same.”

Anders frowned. “I can’t feel them yet.”

“I thought all Grey Wardens could sense the darkspawn,” said Velanna, shooting Anders a disapproving look informing the mage that he was inadequate, in her opinion.

“Yes, but everyone senses them in varying degrees. Basically, the longer you’re a Grey Warden, the better you get at it,” Malcolm answered, hoping no one would question as to the whys of that particular circumstance. “Out of this group, I can sense the best, Líadan right after me. Anders is fairly new, so it isn’t surprising that he can’t feel them yet. You should see Riordan or Fiona, though. Fiona can sense darkspawn that are miles and miles away and can even tell you how many and what kinds at that distance. It’s amazing.”

“She’s the one who told us about the attack on Highever a month ago,” said Líadan.

Velanna nodded. “Interesting. Fiona, she is the flat-ear from Weisshaupt?”

Malcolm started to turn to loudly remind Velanna that racial slurs weren’t tolerated among the Grey Wardens, but Líadan beat him. She spun and grabbed Velanna by her shoulders and, in a surprising show of strength, threw her bodily into the worn stone serving as a wall in the Deep Roads. Velanna, in shock at Líadan’s reaction, stared at her fellow Dalish elf while Líadan glared at her, face perilously close to hers. “I don’t ever want to hear you calling her that,” Líadan said quietly, and yet more menacingly than if she’d shouted the same command. “Fiona is a warrior. She is a Grey Warden. She is _not_ a flat ear. If I ever hear you using that term again, I will—”

“Okay,” said Velanna, cutting off Líadan. “ _Abelas_. I won’t use that term again.”

“Darkspawn,” said Anders, looking like he hadn’t wanted to say anything to interrupt the confrontation. 

Malcolm reluctantly turned away to face where the darkspawn would be appearing momentarily. Behind him, Líadan let go of Velanna and the two of them made ready to fight. Remembering that the recruits needed to do as much of the killing as possible, Malcolm motioned for the three soldiers to move up to stand with him. He knew he didn’t have to encourage Velanna, as she tended to be overly proactive when it came to fighting anyway. Soon enough, the band of ten hurlocks came rushing around the corner and into the swords of recruits and the Wardens. Velanna dispatched three hurlocks with a fireball before they were even within melee range. She shouted, “I am the might of the Dalish!” and sent Anders a smirk. 

“Really? _Really_?” Líadan asked Velanna, but then she started laughing, the butt of her staff resting on the ground as she leaned against it.

Anders rolled his eyes and cast his own fireball, taking care of four more hurlocks. Malcolm spun and glared at Anders for taking kills away from the three other recruits, but Anders didn’t even look mildly apologetic. 

With a sigh, Malcolm dropped back, allowing the three soldier recruits to deal with the three remaining darkspawn. They handled them quickly and admirably, not surprising since they’d survived the first attack on the Vigil, unlike the Orlesian Wardens. Malcolm kept a lookout for more darkspawn in case they decided to swarm as Líadan directed the others in collecting the darkspawn blood. Blood collected, they exited the Deep Roads as quickly as they could, not a single one of them wanting to dally any longer than they had to in the ancient dwarven byways. Though, Malcolm had to admit he was a bit disappointed that he hadn’t gotten to actually participate in the combat.

Líadan noticed his disappointment. “Yeah, me too,” she said quietly to him. “It figures our trip would be routine when we wanted a good, exhausting fight.”

They held the Joining only an hour after they returned. Riordan conducted the ceremony in the small chapel while the other full Wardens watched. Glyphs of silence had been cast, doors locked, and outside, stealthy preparations had been made in case there needed to be a pyre. One soldier died, while Velanna, Tiernan, and Otho survived to become living Grey Wardens.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

“And Dane he stood his ground,

The fanged beast approached.

He saw the rage within its eyes,

The wolf that was once there.

The sword he raised,

Merciful death be praised,

To the Maker went his prayer.”

—from _The Saga of Dane and the Werewolf_ , 4:50 Black

**Malcolm**

Gethin hanged at dawn.

It felt strange to Malcolm to see Grey Wardens meting out justice to beings other than darkspawn. While at Weisshaupt it had seemed commonplace, it certainly wasn’t in Ferelden, at least historically. Things were different now, though. The Wardens ruled the Arling of Amaranthine and the message sent this morning as the sun crawled over the horizon was that kidnapping, no matter who the victim, would not be tolerated. Most of the Wardens in residence at the Vigil had turned out to watch Gethin hang. None of them, it seemed, had taken kindly to what the man had done.

A good number of commoners and even nobles attended the hanging. Malcolm figured some came to see justice carried out, while others wanted to see if the Wardens would truly execute a human for kidnapping a Dalish child, while others, as always there were and always would be, merely came to watch a man die. Teyrn Cousland had explained that to Malcolm when he was a boy, when he’d asked about the crowds that showed up for hangings. As the child of a teyrn, he’d been expected to witness executions from a young age, and his foster father had brought him since the age of ten. A noble had to be sure enough of his judgement that when he sentenced a man to death, the teyrn had said to him, he could attend the execution himself and look that man in the eye before the sentence was carried out. This morning, Riordan had surprised Seneschal Varel by showing up to witness the proceedings. Malcolm wasn’t surprised, as it seemed the sort of man Riordan was in terms of taking responsibility, but he felt badly, as this certainly wasn’t the sort of thing Riordan signed up for when joining the Grey Wardens. Then again, at least they were seeing to the sentence of a man convinced of kidnapping a child, and not something that would tug at their heartstrings, like some poor sod who stole a food shipment from the Crown to feed his family. 

“My father never attended the executions he sentenced criminals to,” Nathaniel said from next to Malcolm. “I heard that your foster father always did. Once, I asked my father why he didn’t and Teyrn Cousland did, and he told me that the teyrn enjoyed watching men die.”

“Far from the truth,” Malcolm answered.

“I know.” Nathaniel paused for a moment, and then asked, “You were there when my father was executed, were you not?”

“Yes.” Malcolm had gone to watch the man die for his crimes against his family and countless others, not just to witness a death sentence he’d helped pass. While Arl Howe’s death had brought closure, it hadn’t brought much in the way of solace. It hadn’t brought back his family or the loved ones of others that had died in Howe’s attack on Highever. “Yes, I was.”

The other man sighed. “Whatever people say about him, he was still my father. And I just want to know if he... if he suffered.”

Malcolm considered the question. Part of him wanted to tell Nathaniel exactly what Rendon Howe had said and done just before his death, to tell Howe’s son that his father had fought with the guards instead of placing his head on the block with honor. The other part of him realized that it would be wrong of him to do so. He was a better man than that. Nathaniel, given the scant stories that the other Wardens had slowly drawn from him, had already had a hard childhood with Rendon Howe as a father. And like any other little boy, he’d idolized the man. He hadn’t known any better then, nor was he really expected to. Just as Malcolm and Fergus had looked up Bryce Cousland, Nathaniel had done the same with Rendon Howe. “No, he didn’t. The headsman was skilled and the blow was clean. It was over quickly and without suffering.”

“Thank you. I just wish I had been there.”

He couldn’t let that one slide past. “No, you don’t. Anora didn’t attend it and Loghain was executed alongside him. It was for the better. And...”

“And what?”

“The crowd probably would’ve called for your head, too, just for being his son. I mean, even if you hadn’t been a party to anything that he’d done, you would’ve been in danger.” Malcolm shrugged. “You wouldn’t have deserved it. You’re a far better man than your father ever was, no matter what he made you think when you were growing up.”

“Hmm. Maybe.” 

Then the doors of the recently repaired dungeon opened, revealing two guards flanking a shackled prisoner squinting in the weak light of dawn.

Unsurprisingly, Gethin did not go easily to his death. He struggled against the grasp the guards had on him, jerked with his arms to try and wrest them from where they were tied securely behind his back, even refused to walk at one point, forcing the guards to drag him to the gallows. His limp legs left long trenches in their wake and his eyes were red-rimmed and crusty, tears of fright still shining brightly in them. When the small contingent arrived at the gallows, Gethin renewed his struggles and the soft swears of the guards wrangling him carried on the sharp, cold air of the late autumn morning. Taunts rose up from the gathered crowd, jeers of cowardice and a pending fate worse than even that of the darkspawn. Two more guards joined the others and hauled Gethin to his feet up onto the wooden platform. Then the crowd could see Gethin’s entire front and how the front of his trousers were newly stained from a recently voided bladder.

“He’s already gone and pissed himself dry!” a man shouted, and then laughed. The rest of the people gathered joined in the laughter, and Gethin’s previously pale face reddened in embarrassment. It took four guards to hold the prisoner in place while the hangman fit the noose around the condemned man’s neck. At the touch of the rough rope about his neck, Gethin’s struggles took on more vigor and the stool holding up his legs rocked back and forth. Three more guards ran up to the platform to help subdue the criminal and keep Gethin from inadvertently hanging himself early. 

Varel took note of the danger, handed Riordan the written final sentence, and prodded him forward to make the declaration just in case matters did go awry. Riordan nodded, and then said in a strong voice that stretched from wall to wall of the yard, “Gethin of Navan.”

The command in Riordan’s voice compelled Gethin to stop his struggles and flick his eyes over to look at the Warden Commander delivering his sentence. Confident that he had the criminal’s attention, Riordan continued, “For the crime of kidnapping a child, you are hereby sentenced to death by hanging. May the Maker have mercy on your soul.” Then Riordan rolled up the decree, handed it to Varel, and nodded to the executioner.

Gethin renewed his struggle and knocked the stool away before the executioner could finished the positioning of the noose’s knot and properly kick away the stool. His feet dangling, Gethin began to sway and twist his body as the rope tightened around his neck. Malcolm had witnessed this executioner’s work before, and even though he used the stool, this particular hangman was well known for being able to mercifully cause the condemned man’s neck to break right after the stool was kicked away. But Gethin’s struggles had messed up the good man’s work and now he would have to die a slow, incredibly undignified death. His face began to swell and red stains started to appear on his skin, his eyes becoming bloodshot and bulging out of their sockets. Agonizing minutes passed before Gethin’s struggles lessened, becoming slow and lethargic before they stopped entirely. His tongue protruded from his mouth and he became completely still. It wasn’t over yet—the body would continue to hang for a full hour, according to custom, to ensure that Gethin was truly dead.

“I would much rather kill darkspawn over witnessing that,” said Nathaniel.

Malcolm couldn’t agree more.

“The shem is dead, then?” asked Velanna, speaking for the first time that morning.

“So it would seem,” said Anders. “They’ll wait another hour before cutting him down, though, just to make sure.” He took another look at Gethin and grimaced. “That could have been me, once. The hanging thing, not the crime. If I hadn’t been conscripted, those templars would’ve seen me to the gallows.”

Velanna raised an eyebrow in Anders’ direction. “Why? What had you done?”

“Oh, I offended them greatly by being born, and then by not wanting to be locked up in their prison of a Tower. That’s all,” he replied. “I kept escaping and I, honestly, never really wanted much in the first place. I mean, all I really want is a pretty girl, a decent meal, and the right to shoot lightning at fools.”

“I think you’re aiming too low if you went to all that trouble seven times,” said Malcolm.

“True. I want a harem, a banquet, and the ability to rain fireballs upon every templar in existence.”

Líadan snorted. “The way the templars keep appearing out of nowhere, you very well might get that last wish, at least.”

Malcolm glanced over at Gethin’s swinging body, the rope creaking as it moved. “Let’s get going to Amaranthine. Be at the stables in an hour.” The others nodded their agreement and hustled off in different directions to get packs and any other supplies, and possibly breakfast, if they had any appetite left. Malcolm didn’t, despite the normal hunger of the taint left him. He knew it would catch up with him later, but he’d just have to make sure he brought along trail food for whenever the hunger decided to hit on the road. That plan in mind, he stopped by the kitchens to pick up some rations. While they wouldn’t have to worry about camping out until after Highever, it was good practice to be prepared for the possibility. Today’s trip would only take a half-day, but then they had to find out what they could about the Tevinters in Amaranthine before they could take a ship over to Highever. At least by sea, the journey would take less than a day, as long as the weather held. There had been flurries last night, as the morning clouds had promised, but nothing had stuck yet. But those days were fast approaching, especially in the mountains. 

As the cook and her kitchen help prepared the food supplies, Malcolm ran up to his room to fetch his pack. He wondered exactly how long they’d be gone from the Keep. There were a lot of variables to consider—ferreting out what they could about the Tevinters in both Amaranthine City and the City of Highever. That could take hours or even days. And then there was searching for the Deep Roads entrance up in the fierce environs of Drake’s Fall. That could conceivably take weeks if they had no good luck at all. Meanwhile, Kal’Hirol would be waiting, they hoped, anyway, and the templars and the other Wardens and the Tevinters and those strange darkspawn that were hunting Morrigan. His hand went to the ring hanging from his neck and he sighed. Best if he left the ring with Fiona, then, and let her keep working on it while he was away. As he hadn’t seen her on his brief pass through the dining hall where the other Wardens were, he figured she must be in the library since she read more than any other person he’d ever known. 

Though he tried to enter the room quietly, a floorboard creaked as soon as he passed through the door. Fiona sat at the table closest to the largest window, three books open in front of her, as well as a leather bound journal, quill, and inkwell. The quill’s scratching at the paper paused when the board creaked. “Not hungry this morning?”

“Executions tend to make me lose my appetite for a while,” he replied. 

She looked up, a slight frown pulling down the edges of her mouth. “You’ve seen enough where you know this is a trait of yours?”

He nodded and shifted his weight from foot to foot, knowing the answer would most likely bring up previously unspoken subjects. “Since I was ten. Raised as the son of a teyrn and all. Teyrn Cousland always said that a noble had to have the courage to watch a sentence he’d passed carried out or he had no right to pass the sentence in the first place. He took both me and my brother Fergus, to make sure we knew what could happen at executions, and to know the gravity of things we might have to condemn another person to. He hated having to sentence a person to death, said it was such an act of finality, like you were entirely giving up on a person’s ability to come around and do the right thing. But, at the same time, he said it was necessary, or there would be anarchy.” The sudden memory of a talk with Teyrn Cousland when he was a small boy drifted into his mind, unbidden. The gravity of the subject written in the lines creasing the teyrn’s forehead and the earnestness of his voice as he talked with Malcolm and Fergus about the intricacies of ruling justly. Then the swift change in subject to lighter things to cajole the two boys out of somber moods brought warmth to his eyes as he teased them. The anguish when he bled out on the larder floor, knowing he would die in minutes. The forgiveness as he looked at him in the Gauntlet. Malcolm had to blink back sudden tears, surprised that the memory of the Fall of Highever would catch him like this, after all this time.

But it hadn’t been all that long. A year and a half, maybe. It felt like a whole lot longer. 

“I’m sorry about what happened to him. He seemed like he was a good man.”

He blinked again, refocusing, realizing that he’d been staring out the window, but not seeing anything. “He was.” Seeking a subject change, he removed the ring from the thong at his neck and extended it toward Fiona. “Here. I don’t know how long we’ll be gone, so I figured you might want to work on it some more in the meantime.”

She accepted it, but kept her warm eyes on him, the concern evident. But she didn’t pry. “Thank you. Hopefully I can get it working better. Vague isn’t going to give anyone much to go on aside from supposition.”

Malcolm nodded absently, knowing he should excuse himself and go down to the stables. But the memories of his childhood had made him curious and almost courageous. He shifted from foot to foot again. “I want to ask a question but...” he trailed off and glanced over at the door.

Fiona studied him for a moment, and then nodded once in understanding. Without a word, she went to the door and cast a ward. For a moment, Malcolm had feared she would just leave rather than stay and talk. Apparently she also had extra courage today, too. Ward finished, the mage turned around expectantly, her arms folded across her chest.

He stubbed at the floor with the toe of his boot. “Did Maric ever talk to you about staying after Alistair? After me?”

Her arms tightened and her crossed arms became almost a self-hug. She began to pace between some of the shelves near the door. “Yes. He asked me to, with Alistair. With you, I didn’t give him the chance to ask, because I wasn’t sure if I would be able to say no.”

“Why _did_ you say no?” He knew nothing about what it was like to be an elf or a mage and he knew those were the reasons why she’d requested he and Alistair be raised without knowing about half their heritage. Was it so bad, to be an elf or a mage or both? Velanna and Líadan didn’t seem to think so, but they weren’t city elves, they were Dalish—something very, very different from their city-dwelling brethren. 

She offered him a small, sad smile. “I would have had no place here. Like I told Maric, outside of the Grey Wardens, I am no one. Apostate mage, unless I give up my freedom and live at the Circle. Either that or I’m an elf without any other skills. There was no question if Maric and I could remain together. We simply couldn’t. I was an elf and a mage and he was a king. At most I would have been his mistress with nothing else added to my existence—I wouldn’t even have been able to raise you and Alistair—and I couldn’t live like that.”

He frowned and stilled his foot’s movements. “No, and no one should expect you to, either.” He looked up. “You still wouldn’t have been able to raise us?”

“No.” She lifted her eyebrows. “Elf and mage, remember? People would have figured out very quickly who you and Alistair were. Putting two and two together wouldn’t have been very difficult. You both still would have had to be raised by others.” A sigh passed her lips. “At least one of you had a decent upbringing. I owe more than I can ever repay to Bryce and Eleanor Cousland. And I owe Eamon and Isolde Guerrin something... incredibly painful.”

Malcolm chuckled despite the subject of his brother’s poor treatment in childhood. “The Maker apparently has a sick sense of humor, because their only child is a mage.”

Fiona smirked. “True. I’d forgotten that.”

“You said you didn’t give Maric a chance to ask you to stay. Did you not see him after I was born?”

“No. I... never saw him again. Duncan did me a favor and came back to Weisshaupt so he could bring you back to Ferelden once you were old enough to travel without me.” A fond smile plied at her lips. “I’ll admit, seeing the gruff man Duncan had grown into playing with a baby was an amusing sight.”

Malcolm stared at her. “Wait a second. If Duncan had to bring me from Weisshaupt to Ferelden—a few weeks’ worth of travel, that means... So your saying that Duncan once had to change my... really?” Good thing he hadn’t known that during their travels from Highever to Ostagar or things would have been even _more_ awkward. Duncan had known him since he was in swaddling clothes and he’d never known. Unbelievable.

“Probably, yes.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Ew.” Then after a moment, his amusement drained away in the face of another memory. “I thought I hated him for a long time, after he conscripted me.” Knowing Fiona would want to hear the story, he told it without prompting. He explained how Arl Howe had betrayed the Couslands, how Duncan had convinced Bryce that it would be best if Malcolm became a Warden, how Malcolm had thought it pure cold-hearted manipulation on Duncan’s part as he hadn’t been able to see the subtext between Duncan and the teyrn, how Duncan had kept him alive and he’d resented him for it. The part about him trying to run made Fiona laugh and she relayed one of the times Duncan had taken off from their Warden Commander at the time. Then Malcolm explained how he’d changed his mind after Ostagar, but too late, as Duncan had already died, and that he wasn’t able to forgive himself until months later, when he and Alistair and Riordan returned to Ostagar.

“You becoming a Warden wasn’t something I wanted,” she said after he told her about the sword and what Riordan had told him.

A crooked smile appeared on his face. “Wasn’t what I really wanted either. Sort of. I mean, I wanted to, before the whole Fall of Highever thing, as they’re calling it now. Then I didn’t want to be, and then I just accepted it. And now I am one. Not much else for me to do, though. I mean, either as a teyrn’s second son or where they have me now as a prince,” and he scowled as he said that, “I don’t have much in terms of things to do. At least as a Warden I have a purpose in killing darkspawn and stopping Blights. Otherwise, I’d have to listen to Eamon all day. I’d _much_ rather live with the taint and have to deal with darkspawn.”

“He is a bit single minded, isn’t he?”

“Ha! That’s an understatement. He is the biggest royalist I’ve ever met. But I’m not even sure it isn’t just being a royalist as it is being a huge fan of the Theirin bloodline. You know, he was pressuring Cailan to leave Anora for someone else since it’d been five years they’d been married and had yet to have an heir. And he’s already pressuring Alistair to get married and produce an heir. Alistair made the mistake of telling him how it’s a lot harder for Wardens to have children. Well, I suppose that doesn’t count for you, since you had two, somehow. Maybe that’ll work in Alistair’s favor whenever he does find someone to marry. I hope it does, because Eamon won’t leave off on me, either.” Malcolm stopped his rant before he blundered further into Morrigan and Líadan territory. “Someone needs to refresh that man on Fereldan history. About how Calenhad became king and how kings are actually appointed. It doesn’t _have_ to be a Theirin, even though he absolutely believes it does.”

Fiona regarded him silently for a moment, and then said, “You know, Maric didn’t want to be king. He hated it, for the most part. It sucked the life out of him for a long time. He explained it to me, once, when I asked if he could just give it up and walk away. I forget exactly what it was that he said, but people believed in his mother and in him and what they could do because of both their bloodline and what they accomplished. You and Alistair did end a civil war, did get a tyrant off the throne, and did end a Blight. I think Ferelden’s faith in a Theirin on the throne is justified, whether or not any one of us likes it.”

Malcolm sighed. “You have a point. I just... I just don’t want it to control everything.”

“Being your father’s son or Eamon’s attempts at influencing you and Alistair?”

“Hmm. Eamon, I guess, because he makes it so much _worse_. He _hated_ Morrigan before we really had a reason to hate her, and now I so much as look at poor Líadan in a way other than anger and he flips out. There’s no reason for him to be like that, except for his whole ‘the Theirin bloodline must continue’ load of crap.”

“Which you just acknowledged wasn’t a load of crap.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Whose side are you on?”

She smiled, brushing off his suspicion. “I’m not on anyone’s side. And you know I’m not exactly Eamon’s biggest fan.”

“Yeah, your glares at him are pretty impressive, I must say. I’m surprised he hasn’t been reduced to a pile of ash already. And if that happened, I’m not sure many people would complain.” He glanced out the window, taking note of the sun’s position. He needed to get to the stables. “Time to go. The others will be waiting.” At the door, he paused and turned to Fiona again. “Thanks for the talk. I know you didn’t have to. And I know it isn’t pleasant relive.” He found himself unable to look at her again, his eyes dropping to the floor, which really didn’t deserve all the attention it seemed to be getting from him. “I just wish...”

“I know. I do, too.”

He managed to look up and saw the same trepidation in her eyes, and the same tears that threatened to fall. Neither of them were ready for that in front of the other, and Malcolm quickly left before it happened. He didn’t feel any magic dispel the ward behind him and knew that Fiona probably succumbed to her tears while he pressed back his own with the heel of his hand. 

After a few minutes, they were sufficiently repressed and he stopped by the kitchens, picking up the supplies. That done, he rushed over to the stables to discover he wasn’t the last to arrive. Anders, Oghren, Nathaniel, and Velanna stood impatiently by their mounts, Velanna having formed an uneasy alliance with her horse. Gunnar ran in circles around the horses, as impatient for the journey to begin as the humans, elf, and dwarf near him. 

“Where’s Líadan?” Anders asked.

Malcolm barely refrained from rolling his eyes. “How should I know?”

Oghren held out an expectant hand to Anders. “Pay up. Two sovereigns, Sparklefingers.”

“Oh, Andraste’s tits,” said Anders, digging the coin out of a pouch. “I thought for sure, with the both of them being late...”

“Both too stubborn for their own good, I already told you that. I traveled with them during the Blight, I know these things. You never should’ve taken that bet. Not that it’ll stop me from taking your money, though. That’s a few flagons of good ale right there.” Oghren jingled the gold coins in his hand for a moment before dropping it into his own coinpurse. 

“Fine, but that means you’re buying everyone a round at the Crown and Lion.”

“Eh. Fine. But still worth it.”

One of the stableboys brought out Malcolm’s horse already saddled. The horse stood placidly as Malcolm secured his pack. By the time he finished and mounted the horse, Líadan came running through the yard and to the stables, offering no explanation and no apology for her lateness. Malcolm studied her for a moment, hoping for an answer, but she merely studied him back. There was no hostility, but there certainly wasn’t anything forthcoming, either. He shrugged, deciding it wasn’t worth the effort of a potential argument, as Líadan wasn’t normally a tardy person, and started his horse toward the gates. 

The journey to Amaranthine City was without a single darkspawn, templar, or bandit attack, much to everyone’s surprise. They shared a late breakfast on the road and little conversation. Velanna spent the time scowling at everything in existence, while Nathaniel seemed to be taking in the current state of his family’s former arling. Líadan seemed in her own little world, Oghren concentrated on remaining astride his horse—despite all the travel by horseback during the Blight, he’d never become a good rider—and Anders seemed to revel in his newfound freedom. They passed by a decent number of travelers on the road. At first the other people were wary, as was normal when seeing an armed party on the road. But once other travelers got closer, they were able to see the rearing griffons on their tabards, robes, or cloaks and wariness turned to warm smiles and cheerful waves. Somewhere inside, it made him feel good to elicit that kind of response from the people of Ferelden, that what he did was worth something. It was a nice feeling, one that he hadn’t had in a long while.

The behavior continued all the way to Amaranthine, the stablehands happy to help them outside the city as they arranged boarding for their horses for the duration of their journey. Malcolm first intended on securing them rooms for them at the Crown and Lion, the inn Nathaniel had recommended, so that they could stow their gear. He strode next to Nathaniel, letting the other man lead because he had no idea where the inn was, as he’d never been to Amaranthine City. The dog trotted nearby, eyes roving at all the different activity. Anders and Oghren weren’t far behind, already arguing the expense of the drinks allowed for the round Oghren would be purchasing. At first Líadan walked with Malcolm and Nathaniel, but almost as soon as they’d left the stables, Velanna started muttering about being dragged into an awful shem city. With frustrated sigh, Líadan dropped back to the rear to either placate or reassure Velanna, or so Malcolm assumed. 

Then he heard a hushed conversation from the right, one that Nathaniel, Anders, and Oghren didn’t seem to pick up on. A male elf had told another elf named Nella to come see the Dalish elves. Maker help him, Malcolm realized, it had already started. They were going to assume that Velanna was Líadan. He hoped the two Dalish elves with him had been caught up enough in whatever conversation they were having to not hear what the city elf had said.

Then he heard, a bit louder, “Oh, the blonde one, she’s very stern, isn’t she? What’s she doing here, do you think?” He knew there was no way they hadn’t heard.

Velanna’s immediate and irritated reply confirmed his fear. “I’m right here, you slack-jawed oafs. At least have the courtesy to speak when I pass by.” Unlike the two city elves, Velanna felt no compunction to lower her voice, so her statement caused all of the Wardens to turn around to witness the coming argument, as well as most of the people milling outside Amaranthine’s gates. Yes, there was going to be a scene, and Malcolm had no idea what to do.

“Oh, we’re sorry, great lady,” the male elf replied, bowing to Velanna in apology. “We didn’t mean to offend.”

“Look at how you’re cowering!” Velanna snapped at them. “You’re like frightened animals. The sight of you sickens me—”

Malcolm turned from the city elves over to Velanna just in time to see Líadan grab Velanna by the back of her robes and haul her off to the side. Alarmed, he raised his arm and started saying, “What are you—” 

“No, no,” said Anders, placing a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Let them fight it out. I’ve been waiting for this for _ages_!”

“Not your day in the pool, mage,” Oghren said.

“I really don’t care at this point. I just want to see it happen.”

Malcolm looked between the dwarf and the mage. “You started a betting pool?”

“Aye,” replied Oghren. “Want in?”

“Well, I suppose I could... wait, no! No, I don’t want in!” Malcolm ran a weary hand over his face and gave up the conversation, heading down to stop Velanna and Líadan from possibly hurting one another with magic. Otherwise, he was sorely tempted to just let them fight it out and hope they’d let the matter drop after that. 

“...if you hadn’t _yelled_ at them,” Líadan was finishing saying to Velanna, letting her hand drop the bunch of fabric it’d held.

“Then what would you have me do?” Velanna asked. “Encourage their cringing ways? Who will stand up for them, or respect them, if they allow themselves to be terrified by passersby? It shouldn’t make a difference who yells at them. Human, Dalish, dwarf—no one should be able to tell them their place. They would do well to learn that.”

“They didn’t have the same advantages _we_ did,” Líadan practically growled at the other Dalish elf. “They never had the strength of a Dalish clan behind them. They don’t know our language or our ways or our history. They live with what they’re given, and if you or I were born into their situation, I doubt we would be any different. In fact, we would be _worse_ off, because those shemlen templars would have either killed us or hauled us both to that prison they call the Circle Tower. And how is yelling at them going to give them courage to leave the city and everything they’ve ever known behind to go and join the Dalish? You and I both know how hard it is to leave everything behind. So have a little heart for our city-dwelling kin, will you?” After a final searing glare, Líadan spun on her heel and strode away, towards the other Wardens, leaving a confused, almost contrite, Velanna behind.

“Thank—” Malcolm started as she passed him by.

She held up a hand. “Don’t.”

He held back a sigh. So that was how it was going to be. Right. Ignoring the strangely angry at everyone Líadan, he walked back to Nathaniel, and they resumed their walk toward the main city gate. Once they reached the portcullis, Nathaniel’s pace slowed, and he slowly looked up at the stone barbican with its massive iron spikes jutting out about the archway. 

“They used to display heads of traitors over this gate,” Nathaniel said. “I suppose my father is lucky his didn’t end up there.”

“He received a proper Andrastian funeral,” Malcolm told him. 

“And you suppose I should thank you for common decency?” came the snapped reply.

What in the name of the Maker had made suddenly made everyone so cranky? Malcolm didn’t even bother replying, unwilling to get into an argument. Instead, he bit back a curse, exchanged a confused look with Anders, and headed into the bustling port city.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

“The Imperium is little more than a dilapidated old slattern, crouching in the far north of Thedas, drunkenly cursing at passersby to recall her faded beauty.

One can see that Minrathous was once the center of the world. The vestiges of her power and artistry yet stand. But they are buried in the layers of filth that the Imperium’s decadence has accumulated over the ages. The magocracy live in elegant stone towers, literally elevated above the stench of slaves and peasants below. The outskirts of Minrathous are awash in a sea of refugees turned destitute by the never-ending war between the Imperium and the qunari.

And yet the Imperium survives. Whether with sword or magic, Tevinter remains a force to be reckoned with. Minrathous has been besieged by men, by qunari, by Andraste herself, and never fallen.”

—from _In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar_ by Brother Genitivi

**Malcolm**

He and Líadan waited more or less patiently in the tavern portion of the Crown and Lion as the other Wardens stowed their gear. In between the gate and the inn, Nathaniel had fallen even more silent than usual, Velanna had seethed even more than usual, and Líadan had resumed walking next to Malcolm like usual, but had yet to say a word since she’d cut him off.

“Sorry,” came Líadan’s uncharacteristically quiet voice from next to him.

“What?”

“You heard me. I said I was sorry. You didn’t deserve me snapping at you. I’m just... I don’t much like city elves, either. It isn’t nice of me and I know that doesn’t make me a great person. There’s city elves I admire. Your—” she stopped and her eyes widened at the near slip. “Um, Fiona, for example. I know that their lives pretty much suck and they really don’t have much in the way of mobility and the chance to change things. But to a Dalish elf, there’s something incredibly disheartening when you see another elf cowering in the face of, well, anything. It isn’t how the Dalish are, which I know you already know.”

“More than anyone should, I think,” he muttered. “The day _you_ cower is the day I voluntarily sleep next to Oghren in a child-sized cot after he spends a night out drinking.”

She laughed, just barely, but it was there. “Anyway, finding myself getting angry with another Dalish over how she spoke to some city elves kind of disturbed me for a bit. But I couldn’t let it pass. We have a chance to let them learn the truth about how the Dalish are, since they look up to Grey Wardens.”

“They look up to you, actually, being an elf and all, and one who fought the archdemon. Stop being modest, you know it’s true.” A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth when a light blush formed on Líadan’s cheeks.

“Velanna told me that Rósín wanted to become a Grey Warden because of me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s why she didn’t kill us outright?”

“Yes, that’s what I gathered when she told me.” She plucked at the fabric covering her leather cuirass. “These silly tabards pretty much saved our lives, even though they aren’t really conducive to staying out of sight in the forest. It’s strange to think about, though, since if we’d worn anything like this during the Blight, it probably would’ve gotten us killed from afar by Loghain’s men, or at least attacked a lot more than we were. Which, now that I think about it, is kind of hard to imagine. We got attacked a lot. You and Alistair never finished any arguments, you know. I noticed that even way back in the Brecilian Forest and made wagers with myself about whether or not you two would finish any fight you started. Glad I never bet on you finishing, because you never did. Not once.”

“Really? Not one single argument? Well, we can take care of that in Highever. If you can remember one that we had, I can spring it on him when we get there, and make sure that nothing interrupts while he and I have it out.”

“No, absolutely not. If we did that, then there’d be a darkspawn or bandit attack and I’d prefer to provoke as little of those as possible.”

He sighed. “Yes, that did seem to happen with frightening regularity.”

Líadan suddenly laughed. “I remember Morrigan telling me that one time you actually yelled at the darkspawn for interrupting and continued shouting at them for doing so throughout the entire battle. She said she’d never seen you carry on like that before and had a hard time focusing enough through her laughter to continue casting spells.”

Malcolm searched through his memories for incident and finally placed it. It’d been right after they’d gotten the Ashes and he did recall that Morrigan had laughed through the entire encounter. “Yeah? Well, I was particularly put out at the time because I was trying to apologize to my brother for being an ass and he was ignoring me because he was trying to figure out where the darkspawn were coming from, but he hadn’t _told_ me that, so I thought he was just being a bastard and ignoring me. You would’ve felt the same. And you were never any better then either of us, anyway.” He quickly removed a gauntlet and held up his bare hand. “Remember in the Deep Roads, when you bit me? Look real close, there’s still a scar.”

She gave him and the hand a dubious look, informing him that she completely didn’t believe his assertion. Then she rolled her eyes and took his hand in hers, inspecting it for the claimed scar. He realized, as she started bringing it closer to her face, that he probably shouldn’t have given her his hand and certainly not without gloves on. As it was, he could already feel her warm breath on his hand and things were going to get incredibly uncomfortable in other places from reactions to just _that_ and he quickly snatched his hand away and went to putting his gauntlet back on.

“Just kidding about the scar,” he said in explanation. “I mean, there is a scar, but it’s from a shriek, not you. Though, I suppose sometimes you can act like a shriek, so I guess that’s why I confused the two.”

Líadan’s arms slowly folded over her chest as her expression changed from intrigued to irritated. Rightfully so, Malcolm had to admit, eyes sliding hopefully in the direction of the stairs, wishing to see their fellow Wardens tramping down them. But it wasn’t to be and if he didn’t extricate himself from this situation soon, he’d find himself on the business end of a lightning bolt rather quickly. Then he remembered they’d left Gunnar outside, not knowing if the inn would be crowded in its tavern portion, and decided he should attend to his dog. “Um, anyway, I’ll go check on Gunnar, make sure he hasn’t eaten anyone or anything.” He started for the door.

“You really think that excuse is believable?” she asked as he passed by.

He turned to face her, walking backwards. “No. But I’m going to check anyway.”

The elf rolled her eyes again, moved over to the proprietor and said something to him, and then strolled in the direction of the door. Malcolm watched her warily as his hand fell onto the doorknob and he started turning it. Apparently, there would be no escape. He opened the door and went through, glancing around for his mabari. He frowned. Gunnar was nowhere in sight. While at the Vigil or Highever or even at the Palace in Denerim, Gunnar had free reign throughout the entire compound. But when they were traveling, Gunnar always stayed close, unless otherwise commanded or if he went with another person he knew. Since he hadn’t been otherwise commanded, and everyone the dog knew was inside the inn, this absence made no sense. Footsteps sounded behind him, followed by a door opening and shutting. 

“Where’s Gunnar?” Líadan asked. “Hmm. Maybe he _did_ eat someone.”

“There’d probably be more screaming, I reckon,” Malcolm replied. 

“If he hasn’t eaten anyone, he could be finding a new toy or playmate. There was that time in Denerim when he ran off and brought a small child back with him. He looked very sad when you told him he couldn’t keep it.”

“I would’ve considered it had the child he’d found not seemed so... what’s the right word for it? Slow? All the kid could say was ‘puppy!’ and he couldn’t carry on a proper conversation at all, even when any of us tried to talk with him instead of the dog.” The memory made him smile, though. Alistair had thought it was awesome, while Morrigan had been horrified. Strange to think of her being a mother now, or in a few months’ time, after the way she’d acted around children during the Blight. Then again, he wasn’t sure if there’d be a lot of mothering, really, if the child didn’t turn out to be a child so much as a world-ending monstrosity. But they didn’t know that for sure, and that’s what made condemnation of the Old God child so difficult before it was born. It could be an innocent, no matter how non-innocently it came to be. Flemeth and Morrigan could’ve been wrong—though he doubted that could ever happen—and the Old God’s soul might not matter much in the end when in the body of a human child. He really needed to remember to ask Alistair what the templars would do if they ever got close to Morrigan while she was still carrying the child. Zevran’s child. He gritted his teeth.

“I could just hit you over the head instead of letting you keep thinking of her. It’ll hurt less and be over faster,” Líadan said.

He chuckled despite himself. “I might take you up on that offer one day.” He would, too, just to see the look on her face. Not that he doubted she’d carry said action out, though. She would, after she stopped gaping at him.

A bark from ahead of them caught their attention and they both looked up. Gunnar raced towards them, his nub of a tail wagging wildly. Malcolm looked behind the dog, but saw no one following him, child or adult. “Where’d you go?” he asked the mabari once he got close.

Gunnar ran in a tight circle, barking and wagging. The inn’s door behind them opened and the other Wardens tumbled out. “What’s with him?” asked Anders.

“Got another hair across its arse,” said Oghren. Gunnar paused and barked directly at Oghren. “Oh, don’t give me that look, dog,” the dwarf shot back. “You’re about one lifted-leg away from becoming a new pair of boots.”

“No love lost between you two, it seems,” said Nathaniel. 

“During the Blight, Oghren once tried to put a saddle on him,” Líadan explained. “Gunnar didn’t take too kindly to it, nor to the idea of being made to drive a chariot that Oghren would ride into battle.”

As Anders laughed, Oghren grumbled, “Sodding dog has no vision.”

After another bark towards the dwarf, Gunnar ran over to Malcolm again, ran slightly ahead, towards the Chantry, and then back again. Malcolm could tell he’d found something and wanted to show them. He sighed. “Fine. This had better be good this time,” he told the dog, “unlike when you find half-eaten, soggy pieces of cake.”

“Hey, that cake was pretty good,” said Oghren. “Well, if you washed it down with enough ale. Heh, anything’s good if you wash it down with enough ale.”

Malcolm followed his dog, ignoring Oghren’s continued mumbling, because once he got on the subject of ale, he could continue for hours, with or without interruption. Líadan followed close behind, also of no mind to listen to Oghren. Once they were near the open area in front of the Chantry, Gunnar broke into a run towards an older woman wearing the robes of a Senior Enchanter. Recognizing the mage, Malcolm grinned and picked up his pace. Wynne had been helping Alistair and Eamon at court when he’d left for Highever, and when he got back from Weisshaupt, Alistair had explained that Wynne had been gone for a time to a meeting of the College of Magi. What was she doing in Amaranthine? “Wynne!” he said as soon as she was sure she’d hear him.

Already turning at hearing the dog, she smiled back. “I thought you would be around here somewhere when I saw Gunnar. Oh, it is so good to see you, my friends.” She pulled Líadan into a hug, surprise registering on the elf’s face. Malcolm had to hold in a laugh. Then Wynne released  Líadan and gave Malcolm the same greeting. “Okay, young man, you need to squeeze a bit less, as  it seems you’ve forgotten that I am wearing robes while you wear armor.” Laughing, he let go. She gave them both an appraising look, as a grandmother does to grandchildren she hadn’t seen in a while. “You’re both looking well. How was Weisshaupt?”

Malcolm immediately put on a sad face. “Wynne... there were... no griffons.”

“Don’t you even think about starting that again,” she replied, but couldn’t keep the smile from her lips. “Maker help me, you and Alistair were awful. Worse than children.”

Líadan looked back and forth between the mage and Malcolm. “Griffons? Why don’t I know this story?”

“Wynne!” came Oghren’s voice from behind them. “Bless my britches, it’s good to see you, woman! Come back for some more of my fine ale?”

“Have you some to share, Oghren?” Wynne asked.

“Ha! For you? Always.” The dwarf reached into one of his pouches, came up with a shiny flask, and tossed it in Wynne’s direction, who easily caught it.

“Oh, he was talking about actual ale,” said Nathaniel.

Oghren gave him a strange look. “Aye. What else would I be talking about?”

Before either of the men could get into a conversation heading rapidly downhill, Malcolm asked Wynne, “So what brings you to Amaranthine?”

After a nod of thanks to Oghren, Wynne turned to Malcolm. “I have just returned from Cumberland, where I was going to attend a meeting of the College of the Magi. However, the meeting was postponed indefinitely due to some news shared only among the First Enchanters of each Circle. They won’t even tell the Senior Enchanters, which is very rare.”

“Any idea what the reason was?” Malcolm asked. “I mean, there’s always gossip and rumors.” Morrigan had been in Cumberland. Though, by the time Wynne was there, she was probably already gone and with whatever Dalish tribe she was hiding within now.

“Nothing much, no. I suspect it’s something Chantry-related, because I’ve seen an awful lot of templars out and about recently, both here and in Nevarra. Most likely, something has got the Chantry riled, and none of the Circles wish to push the Chantry into any more of a tizzy than they already are.”

“Morrigan,” said Líadan. “They’re looking for Morrigan.”

Wynne frowned, her gray eyes flashing in a bit of anger at the mention of the witch. Her disappearance had gone a long way to draw the enchanter’s ire. “Why would they be doing that? I mean, on this sort of scale?”

Malcolm sighed. “They declared her a maleficar. Templars sent by the Divine were at the Vigil a few weeks ago looking to question me about her.”

“The Divine? Why would they...” she trailed off and studied Malcolm closely. “What do you believe? Do you believe that Morrigan is truly a maleficar?”

He held his breath for a moment before looking down at the cobblestones underfoot and slowly letting it go. That was the heart of the question, wasn’t it? Wynne certainly got right to it. By all accounts, knowing as he did what had happened, she was one. But he couldn’t truly believe that until he knew the outcome. Until then, she certainly wasn’t the greatest of people, but a maleficar? Not unless he knew people would be harmed thanks to what she did. Then again, he’d been harmed. So had Zevran, in a way, and Líadan, and everyone who’d traveled with them. Everyone who had been Morrigan’s friend during the Blight, everyone that she had betrayed. He looked up and met Wynne’s gaze. “She’s not a blood mage,” he answered. “As for the rest, I’m not sure. And the Chantry’s templars aren’t the only ones after her.”

“No?”

Malcolm sighed, surveying the immediate area. “Let’s go for a walk, and I’ll tell you what I can. You already have the trust of the Grey Wardens, you knew Morrigan, so you deserve to know it all.” They strolled the outskirts of Amaranthine, the other Wardens and Gunnar keeping people at a distance, Anders maintaining a subtle ward of silence buffer between them and any passersby with great hearing. Wynne took in the news calmly, nodding occasionally, but not asking any questions until Malcolm had finished. 

“So you’re sure whatever child she carries is Zevran’s and not yours?” Wynne asked.

“Yes, I’m sure. There was no ritual,” he replied, trying not to sound annoyed. It was a fair, valid question. He just wished it didn’t feel like he was getting poked in the eye with a stick whenever someone asked it.

“That wasn’t what I meant,” said Wynne. “The child could very well be yours, ritual or no. Don’t make me explain to you where babies come from, young man.”

“I... I don’t... what? No, don’t answer, please.” His cheeks were on fire, he knew it, and he could hear Líadan already laughing, even as she tried to keep quiet. “It doesn’t matter what the rumors are. Because Riordan lived, we know that whatever child she carries has to be a product of her ritual. That means said child is Zevran’s and most assuredly _not mine_.” He ignored the amused quirk of Wynne’s eyebrow and continued, “And probably not even really a child. Well, I hope, otherwise it’d be really weird to be calling for the death of child.” He made an annoyed sound. “So that’s that. The Chantry is looking for Morrigan, yes, but so are the Grey Wardens, a couple strange factions of darkspawn, and now we’re suspecting the Tevinters. That reminds me, when you were in Cumberland and at the docks here, you didn’t happen to hear anyone speaking Arcanum, did you?”

“Now that you mention it, yes, I did, though I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I recall commenting about it to some of the other mages, as well. Not very often that one sees anyone from Tevinter outside of the Imperium. I think one of them was a mage, as well. I suspect they’ll be staying well away from any Chantry and from templars.”

“Oh, that’s good,” said Líadan. “We can use that.”

Wynne gave her a curious look. “You can?”

The elf nodded. “Yes. Fiona’s idea, actually. If we can get the templars to think that one of the Tevinters is a blood mage, that’ll get the Tevinters and the templars preoccupied with each other rather than focused on the Wardens and Morrigan.”

“Fiona?” Wynne repeated.

“Yes, _that_ Fiona,” said Malcolm, remembering that Wynne knew who Fiona was in relation to both him and Alistair. “She’s back at the Vigil right now, working on that ring I told you about. She’s trying to change it so that we could use it to track Morrigan. She’s had a little success, but not a whole lot.”

“I would very much like to see this ring.”

“You’re welcome to go to the Vigil if you’d like. I’m sure Fiona wouldn’t mind the help. Líadan’s tried helping, but apparently she’s a talentless hack,” he glanced over as he made his comment and grinned at the resulting glare, “so your amazing talent would be most welcome, I imagine. Besides, Riordan needs someone around who’s older than he is. Even Fiona is a year younger than him.”

As Wynne considered her answer, Malcolm could swear he heard Líadan muttering something about her showing him what a talentless hack really was. He ignored it, happy enough that they were seeing their old friend, and that she might even be able to help them.

“All right, I’ll go to the Vigil,” said Wynne. “Though I should probably get going if I wish to get there tonight. I will stay at least until your party gets back. You and I need to have a long talk, I think.” Her gaze moved to Líadan. “And you, too, young lady.”

After casting the enchanter a wary look, they said their farewells. Before she left, Wynne made it a point to tell Anders he had done well in becoming a Warden, which shocked the normally talkative mage into mollified silence. Then they went down to the docks and split into teams, questioning any longshoremen and sailors they could, as well as captains and anyone else they could find. Every person they spoke with mentioned Tevinters passing through, but none could say if any were still in the city. And while they could all identify Arcanum, they couldn’t translate it and no idea what the Tevinters had been saying. Because, obviously, that would’ve been useful information, and they just weren’t allowed to have that sort of thing. Malcolm wished they had Zevran or Leliana around still. They would’ve known what to do and they would’ve been able to find far more information than they could. All Malcolm managed to gather was that the Tevinters had left the city pretty much as soon as they’d disembarked from their ships. 

It was a frustrated group that left the docks for the inn a few hours later. Malcolm had secured passage to Highever for all of them the next morning. They could question people in Highever when they arrived, and then make their way to the castle. A scowl formed on Malcolm’s face as he realized that Eamon was probably there, unless Alistair had sent him ahead to Denerim, which was highly unlikely. With the amount of darkspawn activity and how involved the Wardens were here on the northern coast, he doubted Eamon would let Alistair out of his sight, lest Alistair get an idea to help the Wardens. 

“Delilah?” he heard Nathaniel say loudly from behind him.

Malcolm shot a quizzical look at Nathaniel before following to where the other man was looking. He blinked. It _was_ Delilah Howe—she had the same dark hair and light eyes as her brother, but lacked the distinctive broodiness. Nathaniel shouldered past him and Líadan and pulled his sister into his arms as she said, “Nathaniel! I had feared the worst!” Malcolm couldn’t imagine why, as Nathaniel had been in the Blight-deprived Free Marches. Behind him, he heard Velanna muttering something about shemlen families. He let her rant, as long as she was quiet about it. Delilah was already explaining to her brother that she was married to one of the city’s merchants and they made their home in the city proper.

After giving her a once-over, Nathaniel said to his sister, “Times must have been hard, Delilah. But you can do better than this, staying in this city and being married to a merchant. Come back to the estate until we find somewhere else.”

“What?” Delilah asked, and then laughed. “Oh, Nathaniel! I didn’t marry Albert out of desperation. I adore him. He’s so much better than that stuck-up Cousland boy that Father kept trying to set me up with—”

“Well, I didn’t want to marry you, either,” Malcolm said. And to think he’d been contemplating apologizing for what he’d done as a child. Obviously, there was no need for that.

Delilah blinked and stared at him. “Oh, um, that was you, wasn’t it? Ha. Awkward.” Then she smirked. “Muddied any other dresses lately?”

Líadan snorted.

After giving the elf a puzzled look, Delilah’s smirk disappeared into seriousness and she said, “I... I’m sorry about your family. What my father did was... terrible. Thank the Maker I’m finally away from his evil.”

“Father’s evil?” said Nathaniel. “Isn’t that overstating things a little? He got caught up in politics, that’s all. Politics and war.”

Delilah shifted her weight from one foot to another. “You weren’t here. You didn’t see what he did, Nathaniel. You want the culprit who destroyed our family? It was him, without question.”

“I... had no idea.”

She looked at her brother sadly. “Of course you didn’t. You always worshipped Father, right from when you were a little boy.” Delilah grasped his hand and offered him a small smile. “Come, brother. Let us sit and catch up a bit, shall we?”

“Go ahead,” Malcolm said, before Nathaniel even asked. “Just meet us back at the inn.”

Anders and Oghren paid close attention to Delilah as she and Nathaniel walked away. Once they were out of sight, Anders asked Malcolm, “So, you could have married her? And you turned the opportunity down?”

“You didn’t know her when she was a child,” Malcolm replied. “She was a harridan. Horrible. Only cared about her pretty dresses and little dolls and... ugh. Being married to her would’ve been horrific and five kinds of awful and good for her that she found someone.”

“Who can tolerate her?” Oghren pitched in.

“I didn’t say that,” said Malcolm.

“Yes, I don’t really see you being the kind of guy who goes for the ‘oh, pretty dresses!’ kind of woman,” said Anders.

“Given your choice in robes, Anders, I think that’s more your kind of woman,” said Líadan. 

“Oh, no, no. I wouldn’t want to have to compete for who has the prettiest clothing. Never works in a relationship, I’ve found.” He smiled sweetly at her. “What about you? What kind of—”

“Not going there,” she interrupted with an upraised hand, and then started in the direction of the inn. Malcolm glanced over at the others then followed the elf.

“This is ridiculous,” said Velanna after Malcolm had gone ahead.

“Well, what about you, then?” Anders turned to the other Dalish elf. “It’s not so ridiculous if we bring you into the conversation, is it? You’re not allowed to be left out. You are a Warden, now, after all. So what kind of man gets you going? A man in robes, perhaps?”

“Have I not already told you that I find human men both morally and physically repulsive?”

“Repulsive,” Malcolm repeated to himself as he opened the door to the inn after catching Velanna’s statement. “I’m not repulsive.”

“Well, not all the time,” Líadan said to him. “You have your moments where you aren’t repulsive. Merely annoying and slightly irritating. Sometimes, you’re even tolerable.”

“Tolerable! Be still my heart. You really know how to make a man feel good about himself.” He dropped into a chair at a table in a corner, where he could see the entire room from his seat. Líadan plopped down next to him as the others piled through the door. Oghren chuckled to himself as he walked over and caught the warning glance from Líadan, making him sit next to Malcolm instead of her. Velanna sat next to Líadan, as she almost alway sat near the other Dalish elf, much to Líadan’s annoyance, with Anders fearlessly sitting next to her. 

After a blazing glare that didn’t faze Anders in the least, Velanna asked him, “You escaped your Circle, didn’t you? Unlike that mage we met earlier who was apparently trapped there forever, judging from her age?”

Malcolm nearly choked on the ale the waitress had brought over while Líadan outright laughed at the comment. 

“Um, yes. I did. Several times. But they always found me by using my phylactery. Not that I minded being caught much. They always assigned the same templar to track me down. Or perhaps she asked. I hope it’s the latter. On those trips back to the tower—I in my manacles, she glaring silently—the air practically sizzled.”

If Anders was talking about Ser Rylock, Malcolm decided he’d have to rethink what type of woman he’d assumed Anders went for. Then again, maybe not, since Rylock did fall under the category of ‘breathing.’ No, that was unkind. That was Oghren’s type, not the mage’s. 

Velanna stopped her inspection of the ale brought to her, though she’d been looking at it like it’d been a mug full of insects, in order to inspect Anders nearly as closely. “You escaped your Circle, repeatedly, for a woman?”

“Well, not _for_ her,” Anders corrected after taking a sip of his own ale. “But she made being caught more fun.”He flashed half-convincing smile. “That’s me, always looking on the bright side.”

“What was your favorite escape attempt?” Malcolm asked, after placing an order for food with the waitress.

“Oh! That would have to be when I swam in Lake Calenhad from Kinloch Hold to the shore, practically across the entire lake. They’d brought us out for exercise and even let some of us swim, so I took full advantage. It took them a little while to realize that I wasn’t going to turn around and swim back. A couple of the templars gave chase right away, not bothering to take off their armor, and they sank like fishing weights once the water got deep enough. It was rather illustrative of the typical low average of templar intelligence, I think.” He smiled at the rest of them. “Any other questions?”

“Just one,” said Líadan. “I’ve been wondering, but... what exactly are knickerweasels?”

Anders pursed his lips, as if hesitating to give the definition.

Looking from Anders to Líadan, Malcolm said, “Something tells me that we don’t want to know.”

“Oh, I want to know,” said Líadan.

Anders smiled cheerily. “Just remember, what has been heard cannot be unheard.”

Thinking of many other things he’d heard that he would love to never have heard, most of them having to do with the Grey Wardens, Malcolm put his head on the table. “If only I’d known that ages ago.”

The door to the inn opened again, admitting Nathaniel, who was inexplicably wearing an ear to ear grin. Malcolm didn’t think that sort of thing was possible. Even as a child, Nathaniel had never smiled like he was at that moment. It was more than a bit strange and almost out of place on the man, and, frankly, incredibly unnerving. “She said she wants me to come back, once this is all done,” Nathaniel said when he got to the table where the Wardens sat. “Wants me to meet her husband. I’m going to be an uncle, even. She’s due by the spring! And she seems _happy_.” Nathaniel sat down heavily, despite how lighthearted his statements were, and the smile disappeared. “She said that Father deserved to die. I still can’t believe it.”

“He murdered my family to get what he wanted,” Malcolm said. “Including my nephew.” Maybe that would make the depth of Rendon Howe’s actions sink in for Nathaniel since he was going to become an uncle soon. Malcolm had been an uncle once, before Rendon Howe had killed his nephew. He missed it. He missed teasing his nephew and telling him stories that would get them both into trouble with both Oriana and Eleanor. He missed their mock sword fights through the family quarters in Highever Castle and vanquishing the evil foe of Fergus, who always ended up playing the big, bad dragon they had to defeat.

“I thought he had his reasons,” Nathaniel continued. “It was a _war_ for Andraste’s sake! Before I went to the Free Marches, he was never... how could he have changed so much?”

Malcolm shrugged, not feeling terribly helpful. “Maybe he was never who you thought he was.” Though it made no sense to him that Nathaniel couldn’t seem to comprehend what type of man Rendon Howe had proven himself to be. Even before he’d tried to murder all of the Couslands, he’d never really been the best of men. Bryce Cousland had trusted him in some matters, though more than once he’d mentioned that he wouldn’t trust Rendon Howe to care for stray, helpless dogs or children. He was much more liable to go out of his way to kick or taunt them over offering food and shelter. The only reason Bryce and Eleanor had trusted Rendon with what they did was because they’d fought side-by-side during the Rebellion. That was a sentiment and trust Malcolm understood. He’d felt the same way about Morrigan. That even though other people didn’t trust her, he did, because he thought he’d known her, because he’d been at her side in battle and more. In the end, as with Bryce and Eleanor with Rendon Howe, his trust had been proven misplaced.

“I suppose not. I wish I’d known sooner. I feel like such a fool.” Nathaniel accepted the ale the waitress placed in front of him.

He wanted to reach over and somehow snap Nathaniel into reality. “I _did_ tell you sooner. You didn’t believe me and you barely even believe your own sister. That’s how blind you are to what your father really was,” said Malcolm, who then stood up to make his exit before he did something he’d regret. “Excuse me.” Wanting to be away from the idiot who refused to see who his father really was, Malcolm strode up the stairs and into his room. He could just study the detailed map of Ferelden’s northern coast that he’d gotten, marking where they’d seen darkspawn and trying to triangulate where the Highever Deep Roads entrance could be. That would be a much more productive use of his time rather than willing himself not to get into a fistfight with his fellow Grey Warden.

Yet after half an hour, he was no less irritated and no closer to a solution. Staring at the map gave him no extra insight, either. Nor did staring into the flames in the fireplace.

A knock sounded on the door. “Go away,” he said. If Nathaniel thought to come up here and apologize or talk or argue more, he wouldn’t play along. He had too much on his mind already and he’d dealt with the question of if he’d recruited Howe for revenge. He hadn’t. The rest was for Nathaniel to work out, and apparently he’d have to do that on his own, since he refused to believe even what his own sister told him.

“Open the door, you sodding nug-licker, before I chop it down! This is my room, too, you know,” came Oghren’s slightly muffled shout through the door.

Right. He’d forgotten that he had kindly volunteered to share the two-bed room with Oghren since none of the others felt like they could deal with his irascible nature. Or smell. One of the two. Malcolm had become largely inured to it during the Blight. With a sigh, he went and opened the door.

Oghren shoved his way past him, heading straight for his pack on his bed. “About time,” he grumbled. “Stayed down there as long as I sodding could with that other elf and the manskirt wearing freak and that Howe blighter, but I couldn’t take it anymore.”

Líadan had been standing right behind the dwarf and wordlessly handed Malcolm a plate of food before walking into the room and shutting the door. “Waitress brought that. I wrestled it away from a ravenous Anders. You’re welcome.”

He took the food without complaint. As a rule, Wardens never, ever turned down perfectly good food. “Why are you up here?” Not that he minded, but it stood reason to ask.

“Same reason as Oghren.” She looked directly at Malcolm, but broke eye contact almost immediately when he noticed the glint of many unspoken things appear behind her green irises. The elf inclined her head towards the rummaging Oghren. “He also promised a game of Diamondback.”

“Get off my back, elf, like I said, the cards are in here somewhere,” Oghren said as he fumbled through his pack, not even needing to turn around to know Líadan was looking at him.

“Not _strip_ Diamondback, I hope?” Malcolm asked, unable to keep the strain from his voice at the idea.

“Ha! Not with you around here,” Oghren replied as he turned triumphantly, deck of cards in one hand and a flask of dwarven ale in the other. “That’s a game only meant to be played with one guy and plenty of women.”

Looking from the cards to the ale, Malcolm wasn’t sure if he’d rather play strip Diamondback over having to take sips of dwarven ale whenever he lost a hand. As fun as the game could be, he was admittedly terrible at it. He decided he would much rather be stuck naked in the Crown and Lion than with a hangover caused by dwarven ale.

Oghren noticed Malcolm’s look. “Ale’s for me, not for you two lightweights. Though now that you bring it up, if we aren’t playing strip Diamondback or using ale, what will we play for? Hmm. You know, if I made you two play strip Diamondback, it’d probably get you past whatever keeps you from a good tumble. Yes, that—”

“No!” came the answer from both of them.

Chuckles rumbled from his chest. “You make it so easy.”

Líadan pointed at him. “You are a horrible little man.” Then she took the deck of cards and started shuffling. “Just for that, we’ll play using your ale.”

“Maker help me,” said Malcolm.

“Looks like someone’s going to have a hangover in the morning,” said Oghren. “And it won’t be me.”


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

“In the company of monsters he went,

Down the empty wolf-roads after the dragon

To the lands where ice is like steel,

And the air grows thin as a beggar,

And every rocky path is strewn with the bones

Of the lonely dead.”

—from _The Saga of Dane and the Werewolf_ , 4:50 Black

**Malcolm**

Uproarious laughter lanced through his head, rousing Malcolm to a bleary, reluctant wakefulness. He cautiously opened one eye to locate and possibly silence the source of the deceptively pretty laughter. A thin shaft of light stretched into the room through a narrow gap in the curtain across the single window. His pupils and head balked at the very notion of light and his eyes squeezed shut, but not before he’d seen the hazy image of Líadan on the bed on the opposite side of the small room. “Maker, _stop_ ,” he said, his voice more hoarse and weak than it’d been after he’d woken up from a week spent unconscious. “Stop with the laughing. Please. I’ll do anything.”

“If you could just see this setup, you’d understand,” came the answer from an altogether too cheerful Líadan. 

He was afraid to look, even though he could tell that not only was he still fully clothed, but that there was no one else in his bed. His arms and legs were spread out wide, taking up any and all room there would’ve been for a companion. With a dramatic sigh, he mustered up his courage and forced his eyes open again to survey this apparently hysterical scene. Líadan sat where he’d seen her before on the bed across from him, one leg tucked under the other as she continued to giggle, hair sticking up in odd tufts from the top of her head. Wordlessly, the elf pointed towards the floor next to Malcolm’s bed and he slowly glanced down. Oghren was slumped against the bed, one arm flung up near the top, legs splayed out, snoring away, a bit of drool reaching from the corner of his mouth and into his braided beard.

Okay, he had to admit, that was pretty funny. He snorted and started laughing, immediately regretting it as the vibrations made his brain scream at him in protest. “Oh, ow,” he said, hand going to his forehead. “Ow, _ow_. How badly did I loselast night?”

“Very badly. You’re just awful at Diamondback and I think Oghren was losing on purpose, either wanting to get more drunk, wishing I would switch to strip Diamondback, or both. The more drunk happened. No stripping, though.” Her face scrunched up in thought. “I don’t think. I woke up fully clothed, anyway, and in a separate bed. And Oghren snoring there on the floor and you laying there like you were dead.”

“I think dead would hurt less,” Malcolm replied. “And if I’d woke up to Oghren actually _being_ in my bed, I think I would’ve rather have been dead.” He peered at the dwarf again. “Yes, I would’ve preferred death over waking up next to that.”

“You and me both,” she replied, running one hand through her hair, and then both hands, trying to smooth it down. “I would’ve gone to my own room, but I was bad off enough that I couldn’t remember which room was mine. And, well, since Oghren had passed out there on the floor and the empty bed looked so comfortable... I just didn’t bother leaving.”

“The others will talk, you know.” Knowing their companions, they’d probably never leave off with the teasing. Ever. Even Riordan joined in on occasion, all of it serving to remind Malcolm that the Grey Wardens could very much be exactly like a family. “A lot.”

Líadan shrugged indifferently. “They already do. But, whatever. If they don’t shut up when I tell them to, I’ll just feed them to the darkspawn.”

Somehow, he didn’t doubt it. The image of Líadan tossing various members of their group to a crowd of waiting darkspawn passed through his mind and he began to laugh again. But the throbbing pain from his skull from what he was sure were minuscule dwarven smiths hammering away inside brought an abrupt halt to his mirth. “Wait. How are you so damn cheerful? Shouldn’t your head be trying to kill you, too, after last night?”

“Did you not notice that I drank water in addition to my ale?”

“I... no. Can’t say that I did.” He’d noticed _other_ things about her last night, like how the firelight reflected in her eyes or her whispers, even when mocking him, could be strangely sed—right. Nothing about that, this was _Líadan_ and he needed to stop thinking like that. “Why?”

“That’s the trick. Some of my clan’s older hunters taught me. They said that one of the keepers had figured out, using their magic, that it’s like when your body hasn’t had water in a long time. So, they thought if you drank water with whatever else you drank, you’d either not feel sick the next day or feel not as badly as you would have.” She shrugged. “I guess it works.”

He closed his eyes again. “I hate you.” Then after another minute of feeling sorry for himself, he opened them and slowly sat up to regard Líadan. “Hey, you’re a mage.”

“Really? I had no idea. Is that why templars are always giving me dirty looks? And here I thought it was because I was Dalish. Good to know it has nothing to do with my heritage.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That came out wrong. Obviously. What I _meant_ to say was that you’re a mage, so don’t you know some sort of spell to remedy this sort of thing?”

“Because I’m such a fantastic healer?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“That would be a healing spell you’re asking me to do. And before you ask, no, that isn’t the sort of spell Fiona has been trying to teach me. We’re still on the basics, like healing little things like papercuts or maybe even splinters. Your current condition is far beyond anything I can do.” She tilted her head to the side and studied him for a moment, the amused smile once again quirking her lips. “I could hit you over the head to knock you out, if you’d like.”

“As appealing as that sounds, we’ve got a ship to catch soon.” His eyes widened at the thought of being on a heaving sea. Normally, he didn’t have any problem with seasickness. In fact, he’d never had any seasickness at all, even on his first trip out on a sailing ship on the Waking Sea as a boy. In this condition, however, he could barely keep the contents of his stomach down while sitting on a bed, much less standing on the deck of a moving ship. “I wonder if Anders knows a cure. He must, right?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I hope so, for your sake, or you’ll be spewing the contents of your stomach over the railing of the ship for the entire trip.”

Oghren let out a loud snort and his eyes popped open. “Ale!” 

Líadan and Malcolm looked at him, both amazed that he could speak, and said, “What?”

He rolled to his feet. “Ale. Need ale.” He patted around his pockets and his beard, coming up empty. Then he found his pack, which at some point the previous night had been chucked into a corner, and rifled through it. A triumphant hand came up with a small, shiny metal flask and he quickly uncapped it and drank greedily. “Ahhh,” he said, screwing the cap back onto the flask. “That’s better. Nearly lost last night’s dinner and that would’ve been a waste of a fine meal.” Oghren turned and faced the two other Wardens, looking pointedly from one to the other. “You’re doing it wrong.”

Malcolm rubbed at his face with the heels of his hands. “Doing what wrong?”

“First off, you aren’t supposed to have clothes on. Second, you should be on the same bed, if you’re going to use a bed at all. Five feet between you two and fully clothed isn’t going to get you in any sort of tumble, I’ll tell you that much,” the dwarf replied, motioning with his hands as he talked, flask still in the right hand.

“Oghren, if you were trying to set us up for something because it’s your day of the week for the pool as of midnight last night then you really should’ve thought things through better. Less dwarven ale, to name one thing. You not being here, to name another. Shall I go on?” Líadan said.

“Heh. You want me to leave? I can do that. No problem at all.”

“Don’t bother,” Malcolm said, carefully lowering himself back to lay down on the mattress. “I can barely lay here and not move right now, much less do whatever it is you’re insinuating. Everything hurts. My hair hurts. My toenails hurt. ”

“Bellybutton lint?” asked Líadan.

He smiled despite the aches permeating his body. “If I _had_ any, which I don’t, I’m sure that would hurt, too.” 

Oghren sadly shook his head. “I knew we should’ve played the strip version.”

“Not with you around, dwarf.” Líadan sighed and stood up. “I’m off to take advantage of having bathing facilities since I never know when we’ll suddenly have to do without.” She stopped by Malcolm’s bed. “I’ll even take pity on you and see if Anders can help.” Then she flicked him on the forehead with her finger before heading out the door.

Malcolm moaned at the resulting pain. “Why would you do such a thing? _Why_?”

“Oh, quit your whining. I’ve seen you take a worse hit from a deep stalker,” said Oghren.

“Not with a hangover.”

“Fine. You stay here and whine. I’m going to go see about some breakfast.” With that, the dwarf bustled out of the room, leaving Malcolm behind, stomach resuming its churning at the mention of food. He didn’t much care that the others had ditched him, though. It meant things would be quiet and that he wouldn’t have to keep his eyes open and maybe that would give the room a chance to stop tilting and spinning.

“I hear that someone in here has a hangover?” came an overly-loud question from what sounded like an overly-pleased Anders.

But Anders had healing capabilities and Malcolm desperately needed said skills and knew he had to be nice to the other man if he didn’t want to continue suffering. So he said nothing about how he knew that Anders had spoken over-loudly on purpose, just to be mean. “Yes. Please, out of the goodness of your heart, help me. Either by curing this or ending my suffering.”

“Wow, she really did do a number on you. Laid you right out, it seems. Rough night with the woman, I take it?” The mage’s voice was closer now.

“Anders, if Líadan ever heard you saying that, she’d kill you herself.” And I would cheer her on, he didn’t add, not when he needed healing help.

“Which is why I’m saying it now, while she’s off doing whatever it is women do in the morning. Bathing, I think it’s called. Which, by the way, you should consider doing before we have to leave for the ship. You’re a bit ripe. Honestly, I think your dog smells better. Lucky for me, and you, I don’t need to touch you for this spell.”

Malcolm felt the hum of magic in the air as Anders summoned power from the Fade. Then a slight warmth spread through Malcolm’s body, and after it passed, so had the aches and nausea and every else he’d woken up groaning about. He opened his eyes and heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank you. Truly.”

“If you’re really thankful, you’d do a favor for all of us and go and wash up. I’m going to go eat before Oghren finishes cleaning out this tavern’s larder.” Anders’ robes swished around his feet as he turned and strode from the room.

Malcolm, feeling quite good, gathered up what he needed and headed to the washrooms. Though the water was tepid, it was refreshing and served well enough with the soap to get the grime and aroma of the road and ale off his body. Thus clean, he packed his gear, shouldered it and headed downstairs. He joined the other Wardens at a table in the corner to eat, listening to Anders mock Velanna for how much she was eating as she denied having an appetite for shemlen food. But when Nathaniel pointed out that she’d already cleared three full plates, Velanna dropped her protests and elected to glare instead. Chuckling to himself as they finished their morning meal, Malcolm paid the innkeeper, and then headed out the door into an incredibly sunny day. Thank the Maker Anders had been able to do something for him, because if he’d tried to go out into this sort of sunlight while still hungover, he’d have vomited in the nearby bushes and probably collapsed onto the cobblestones due to pain shooting through his skull. Instead, as he’d been healed, he silently thanked the helpful mage and walked in the direction of the docks.

“You know, if you still had your hangover, you’d be in tears right now,” Líadan said.

“I’m not sure if I would’ve remained conscious after hitting this kind of brightness.”

Oghren scoffed. “Lightweight.”

“Never claimed otherwise,” Malcolm replied. “And next time, we’re playing Wicked Grace, just so you know.”

“That’s practically cheating for you,” said Oghren. “You’re unnaturally good at that game. Even the Antivan was convinced you cheated, even though he could never prove it.”

It was Malcolm’s turn to scoff. “You’re just making up excuses because you’re scared.”

“Fine. You’re on.” Then Oghren turned to Nathaniel and Anders. “And the two of you owe me three sovereigns each.”

“What? Why?” asked Anders. “Nothing happened, especially judging from the state of Malcolm’s hangover. I’ll give you some credit for trying to make it happen, but I’m not giving you any coin for it. Nope. It has to be real.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes and picked up the pace, leaving the other Wardens behind to argue amongst themselves about who owed whom what. At the docks, he found their ship and greeted the ship’s captain, asking about the wind and the weather. Thus far, it looked to be favorable, and according to the grizzled old captain, they should reach Highever’s docks by midday. Once they were underway, Oghren spent most of his time hidden in the hold, complaining that no dwarf should ever have to sail any seas. Gunnar found a coil of rope, appropriated it as his bed, and slept. Nathaniel appointed himself to be Velanna’s guide and remained with her, patiently answering her questions that sounded more like accusations whenever she chose to ask them. Had Malcolm felt more inclined towards good will, he would’ve thanked the other man, but as it was, he didn’t feel much like it. Not until Nathaniel finished getting his head out of his ass about his father, at least enough where he stopped blaming the Couslands for what Rendon Howe did to them. There was no justification for it. None. Not even the flimsy evidence Howe had presented to Loghain to convince the former regent that the Couslands were conspiring with the Orlesians and that’s why they needed to be ‘taken care of’ would’ve served as true justification. Well, except for a man, such as Loghain, already suffering from extreme paranoia when it came to Orlesians plotting to retake Ferelden. 

The clipper wasn’t even out of the harbor before Líadan started to turn an alarming shade of green that Malcolm hadn’t thought possible for human, dwarf, or elf. In fact, he swore there had been frogs he’d seen that were less green than the elf was right now. “Is this how it was when you went to Weisshaupt?” he asked.

She started to nod her reply, but stopped abruptly as the motion only worsened her condition. Doing his best to hold back laughter, because Líadan did truly look quite miserable, he told her to stay on the stern of the ship, as it would be the place moving with the swells of the waves the least. She took his advice and staked out a spot near the rudder, and then told him to go away because she couldn’t take his insufferable amusement. Barely maintaining a straight face, Malcolm headed up to the bow of the ship and stood near the bowsprit. Other than being up in the rigging, which he’d climbed many times as a child with either the teyrn or teyrna shouting their dismay, the bowsprit was his favorite place on a ship. It was the frontmost part of the ship, its pointed beam jutting out over the water, the rope netting around it barely a safety for the sailors who would have to scramble on it to unfurl headsails while underway. The wind blew across his face with the spray from the ocean and he closed his eyes and smiled into it. He’d fancied becoming a sailor as a child, enamored with the idea of being on the ocean all the time, able to climb up into the rigging whenever he wanted, and even being paid to do so. Eventually, he’d grown out of that idea, realizing that the younger son of a teyrn—and, later, realizing that the younger brother of the Fereldan king—had no future as a sailor. Or, from a momentarily wistful thought, as a pirate, though he did possess the requisite skills of swordsmanship and sailing ability.

No. Grey Wardening it was, prefer it or no. He sighed and opened his eyes, watching the horizon of the Waking Sea opposite the Fereldan coast. Somewhere beyond the horizon, the Vimmark Mountains rose as a dominating feature reigning over the small sea. And somewhere beyond those mountains, in an ancient forest, was Morrigan. Morrigan and a clan of Dalish elves, Tevinters and templars, and possibly even darkspawn. He wondered if she was showing yet, how different she looked, and then he wondered why he pained himself to think about it. The child—if it could be called that—wasn’t even his. She had left him and had no intention of ever returning and had even told him exactly that in no uncertain terms. And yet he thought about her. Wondered after her well being. Felt frustrated that all of these people were after her, some wanting to outright kill her, and that he couldn’t protect her. He’d promised her that, once, that he would always protect her. Did her leaving him release him from that oath? Probably. But his heart, or at least part of it, didn’t seem to care about that logic and clutched it tightly. It would only release that oath when expressly told by Morrigan, and that could never happen. But the rest of his heart, he knew, had let go already, given up love for anger and sadness and regret. 

His blue eyes, matching the color of the dark ocean stretching around the ship, continued to watch the horizon. Once he finished things in Highever and Kal’Hirol, he’d have to go looking for Morrigan. But he knew he couldn’t directly search for her, because she’d know he was coming, if she didn’t merely assume it already. And if she didn’t want to be found, she wouldn’t be, not by him. But she was searching for something, too, something to do with ancient power. If he searched for the same thing that she wanted, eventually they would have to cross paths. Searching for her like that could also misdirect her, make her think he wasn’t specifically looking for her. She might become less cautious, given that idea. Then again, less caution could also be bad, because if she slacked too much, then the other search parties stood a better chance of finding her.

But there wasn’t another way that could be successful. He couldn’t go after her directly, even as they continued to fine-tune the ring. The ring, though, that would come into effect later, when he got closer to whatever it was that Morrigan wanted. It would let him know if she was coming or if she was already there. Wherever ‘there’ was or would be. He knew he needed to go south, to visit Denerim and look through a few archives, to seek out Flemeth’s old hut and gather what he could there, and there was still the matter of that spirit bound in the Korcari Wilds that could possibly offer him the chance for a granted wish. There were many things to be looked after and tried, and not enough time to do it in. How long had it been since the Battle of Denerim? Three Months? Four? However much time there was left until Urthemiel returned, it didn’t seem like it would be enough. They wouldn’t find Morrigan before she gave birth, he was certain of it. Even if he tried this mad, roundabout scheme in order to track her down, she wouldn’t allow herself to be found until she was strong again. And he knew Morrigan well enough—even as much as he might not have truly known her—that she would view being with child as a weakness. While having to protect an infant could also be construed as a weakness, it would be a different one. Because at that point, at least her own body would not be the source of the weakness. This was the time to locate her, and yet, this was the time when it was least likely anyone would be able to do so.

He couldn’t now, anyway, as he had responsibilities. The Deep Roads entrance in Highever, the strange darkspawn at Kal’Hirol, they were Grey Warden matters that were much more important than his painfully open wound that was his past with Morrigan.

“So, where is she?” Líadan asked, leaning on the railing next to him.

He wordlessly pointed northwest, same as before. Then he glanced over, surprised at the lack of fire in the elf’s voice at the subject of Morrigan. Her face had regained some of its usual color instead of that sickly hue of green. “Hey, your face stopped clashing with your tattoo,” he said, wanting to drop the subject of Morrigan before it could really come up between them, a spiked wall that would drive them apart.

She made a face and idly brushed a few stray strands of auburn hair out of her eyes. “That was Anders’ doing. He said just looking at me made him feel seasick out of sympathy, and he doesn’t get seasick in the first place, so he healed me.” Her eyes moved, taking in the rope webbing and wooden beam of the bowsprit. “Why are you up here, anyway? There’s seats below and it isn’t like you have to worry about running topside to heave your guts over the railing like most of us.”

“I like it up here. Not sure why. The wind, I guess, and when the seas are rough, the water sprays up from below.” He laughed quietly. “When I was a kid, I wanted to be a sailor. More than once, the teyrn or teyrna would have to get a sailor to pull me off the rigging.” He pointed at the webbing where the headsails were stowed. “One time, I managed to climb out there in seas that were starting to get pretty rough, and when the teyrn climbed out there himself to get me, I thought the teyrna was going to have a fit. I couldn’t figure out who she was more mad at, him or me, and if she loved us or hated us. Both of us just sort of stood there while she yelled things like ‘Maker’s breath, Bryce, there’s a reason why they call it the _widowmaker_ , you don’t have to go and make it come true, there were more surefooted sailors who were closer and could’ve gotten him!’ which was actually true. There’d been three sailors closer, but the teyrn just acted when he saw me and immediately went to get me without thinking it over. He pointed out that she would’ve done the same thing, and after glaring at him for a good five minutes, she admitted that she would have. Then she just threw up her hands and stormed off.”

“Why do they call it the widowmaker?” asked Líadan, giving a skeptical look at the precarious webbing.

He pointed at the furled headsails. “Well, if they have to mess with those sails during stormy seas, it can get fairly dangerous, especially if the waves get high. But on a day like today? Or the day I went out there as a kid? Not really a widowmaker kind of climb. To be fair, that day it was getting there, but hadn’t quite gotten that bad yet.”

“Small child or calm seas, I don’t see why you’d voluntarily climb out there.”

“What, you never climbed trees as a child just because they were there and you could reach the lower branches?”

“That’s different. Those are trees. It isn’t like I could fall out of them and drown.”

“Right, but you could still have fallen out of a tree and broken your neck. The threat of danger is still there, even if the danger itself is different.” Malcolm shrugged, and then gave her an impish grin. “And it was fun. You must’ve done something in your life just because it was fun. Tell me you aren’t _that_ boring. Actually, I know you aren’t that boring.”

Líadan rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine. Yes.”

“Ha! There’s a story there, I know it.” He turned his back to the rail, hopped up, and sat on it where he could feel the wind from the sea on his back and could still look at Líadan. “So, what thing did you do that was just for fun?”

“I... climbed trees.” She shifted uneasily, looking from him to the ocean crashing against the hull below. He followed her gaze, though he didn’t share in her obvious concern that he would fall from his perch and into the cold waters of the Waking Sea. While it would be uncomfortable were he to fall, his armor was light enough that he would be able to swim long enough for rescue if he had to. Up near the bow, the fall distance was nearly fifteen feet, but that sort of height meant water would hurt when you hit it, yet wouldn’t knock you out. He contemplated letting go of the railing and hanging on with just his legs, but he figured Líadan would kill him for even trying to give her a fright like that. Not that he’d blame her if she did murder him had he done it. However, he did take care to hook his legs through the slats on the rail, just in case. As if she’d heard his previous thoughts, she looked up from the water and said, “Don’t you dare let go.” Then she moved slightly so that she stood in front of him, close enough that if he started falling backwards, she probably thought she could catch him in time.

“Oh, come on. Admit it, without me around, your life would be a whole lot easier.” And less confusing, he thought, but didn’t say out loud. Were she not around him, he knew he’d be far less conflicted and confused. But at the same time, he couldn’t imagine life without her there, whether it be irritating him or teasing him or whatever else. While her presence on half the trip to Weisshaupt Fortress and at Weisshaupt had been frustrating at times because she knew exactly how to needle him, it had also been reassuring. She was a sign of normalcy, even, if any part of his life could be qualified as that since Duncan’s appearance at Highever.

“Don’t say things like that,” she said, and then held up a hand to stop any reply he would’ve given. “I mean it. If you and Alistair and Zevran hadn’t found me, I would be dead right now. And as much as I might’ve hated you for it back then, when I thought it would’ve been better for me to be dead than live without my clan, I don’t feel the same any longer.” Her hand then dropped onto the smooth wood of the railing. 

“Is that a thank you?”

Líadan narrowed her eyes for a moment at being caught out. “I suppose. Don’t try to make me repeat it, because I won’t. And I think I only said it because of whatever healing spell Anders did on me.”

He chuckled, his eyes moving to roam the horizon once more. “Yes, I know what you mean.” Then her words tumbled through his mind again and he turned to face Líadan instead of searching for what wasn’t on the horizon. “Wait, so you’re saying you don’t hate me?”

She bit her lip, her eyes darkening with troubled thoughts. Then she looked up at him, both fearful and almost angry. “You don’t truly think I hate you, do you?”

Malcolm didn’t think that, not really, but he didn’t know how to address the sudden serious slant the conversation had taken, nor did he particularly want to. Some things, like certain interpersonal matters, were a whole lot more frightening than facing a horde of darkspawn. “Well, look at it from my perspective,” he said after a moment. “Half the time, you’re yelling at me. The other half, you’re either teasing me or not speaking to me. And you’ve zapped me with lightning, what, twice now?” He started counting on his fingers. “There was that time in the Deep Roads, right after you bit me. And then in Highever when you pretty much threw me across the room. Yeah, that’s twice. Some people could feel that sort of thing to be like hatred, you know.” He deliberately left out the other conversations they had, where they talked about hopes and fears as much as they dared. Or looks they shared, conveying understanding or concern of the other where no one else did. Or even the actions they took to defend each other, in arguments with others—with outsiders—or in battle.

She looked pointedly from his freed hands to the railing. With an exaggerated sigh, he put his hands back on the rail. Then she asked, “Are you one of those people?”

“No. Well, I mean, I used to think you hated me. But somewhere between the first zap and the second, I figured out it’s just your unique way of expressing how much you care.”

“Because it isn’t like you’re any better than I am,” she said, the side of her mouth lifting in a half-smile.

He barely stopped himself from crossing his arms. “Is that so? Last time I checked, I didn’t even possess the ability to hit someone with lightning.”

“Lightning or not, you push people away all the same.”

“People? Or you?” As if realizing exactly what he’d just asked, Malcolm’s eyes widened slightly, and a panic rose in his throat. Líadan continued not answering, only standing there, lips pursed and eyes looking away. His hands reached back, searching for the webbing around the bowsprit. He could climb out there, lay on the ropes, maybe have a nice nap over the ocean. “You, um, don’t have to answer that. I think this chat’s getting way too serious. I mean, it’s a nice day, we’re out on the open ocean, you aren’t seasick for once, I’m not hungover anymore, so we really shouldn’t be talking seriously at all.” His fingers found purchase on the ropes and he unhooked his legs to crawl backwards onto the webbing.

The movement drew Líadan’s attention and she quirked an eyebrow. “What are you up to?”

He lifted both legs up, now ready to scramble out over the sea. “What do you mean?”

All the seriousness in the elf’s face had disappeared, replaced almost entirely by barely restrained amusement. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re running away. You’re climbing out on that beam-whatever thing—”

“Bowsprit,” he said.

“Bowsprit, beam, widowmaker, whatever. You ask something serious, take it back, and now you’re running away. I could follow you, you know. Eventually, you’d run out of ropes and beam and then what? You’ll go for a swim?”

“Well, not in my armor I won’t.” Malcolm looked over himself and his situation and admitted that the evidence pointing towards him trying to run away was fairly damning. But, if he stayed, it’d get awkward. Again. He scooted further out onto the bowsprit. She wouldn’t follow him. The bowsprit was a good fifteen feet over the water. She didn’t like heights and fifteen feet could look pretty far, especially over a trough. His eyes flicked over to look at the sea in front of the ship and he could see whitecaps on the water where gusts of wind waited. Water would kick up there, too, and that could keep her from following. 

A full laugh bubbled out of her throat. “Just look at yourself! You can’t be serious.”

“I think I mentioned something about _not_ being serious.” And he categorically refused to admit that he was trying to run away, even as he found himself as far out on the bowsprit’s webbing as he dared go. Any farther, and he’d have to shed his armor first and go for the swim Líadan had brought up.

“You know what? Fine. Be a coward. I’m coming out there.” With that, the elf nimbly hopped up onto the railing and grabbed the webbing.

He wondered how cold the Waking Sea was this time of year.

“Wave!” one of the sailors shouted.

Malcolm’s eyes moved from Líadan to the water, remembering the whitecaps he’d seen ahead of them. The sea dropped out from below them as they hit a trough and Líadan let out a yelp as the ship followed the ocean downward. Knowing they were about to get hit with part of a wave, Malcolm anchored one of his feet in the webbing, and then reached out and took hold of Líadan’s wrist. “Hold on,” he told her. Then it struck. 

The ship clipped through the top of the wave, sending water cascading over the deck at the bow. Cold seawater drenched the two Wardens sitting in the webbing of the bowsprit and Líadan cursed loudly at Malcolm as he tried not to laugh. “Well, I assumed I wouldn’t go swimming in my armor,” he said in an attempt to deflect her anger.

Líadan glared at him, hair plastered to the sides of her head, water running in rivulets down her face. “I hate you. This is your fault.”

“You didn’t have to come after me,” he said. “You could’ve just left me alone. So, really, you kind of brought it on yourself.” A statement, he realized, that could apply to much more than only their current situation.

“One more comment like that and I’ll make it a third lightning incident,” she said in a near-growl. “Now let go of my arm so I can—” Another wave, this one slightly smaller than before, hit them. Her eyes blinked in astonishment and she heaved more curses at him.

Though now thoroughly drenched, Malcolm could barely contain his laughter. He pressed his lips into a firm line, desperately trying to keep the smile from forming because if he allowed the smile the laughter would surely follow. But then Líadan’s head snapped up and she glared at him, her cheeks starting to turn rosy from her temper and the scrunch forming on the bridge of her nose, and a chuckle slipped out. Her eyes flashed angrily at the sound and he tried to stop, but she was trying to look intimidating and she was only succeeding in looking like some sort of adorable drowned puppy and he burst into a full laughing fit. Líadan spluttered for a few moments before giving in to the ridiculousness of the situation and began to laugh herself. Once she started, she couldn’t stop, dropping on her back next to him and laughing just as hard as him.

When a third wave hit, Malcolm realized that they should climb off the webbing and to the relative safety of the deck before something happened. He pushed himself up and Líadan with him. “We need to get back to the deck before the sailors and the captain get nervous,” he said in explanation.

Líadan smirked. “So now you’re just going to run to the back of the ship?”

“Stern,” he said without thinking.

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

“Yes. Now, come on.” He lightly pushed her forward, trying to get both of them safely on the deck before another wave hit. She grumbled, but she did move, hopping off the webbing and easily onto the deck. Malcolm readied himself to follow, already feeling the ship start to drop into the next trough. He’d just managed to plant his feet on the deck when the water hit them, bringing another round of curses from Líadan as the force shoved him forward and stumbling into her. When he realized how close they were, he forgot about the waves, his mind swaying between this being incredibly _awkward,_ and at the same time, not wanting it to end. Even as she continued cursing at him, shifting from Fereldan to Elvish, he felt no drive to move from where he stood. His right hand moved of its own accord, fingers moving to trace at the tattoo on her forehead from its convergence point just above where that adorable crinkle to its sweeping arc around her eye, descending to curve inwardly to its end just above her cheekbone. 

“... _madar alasbora!_ I—what are you doing?” 

Her sudden switch back to Fereldan served to jar Malcolm into reality. He blinked and stared, first at his hand, wondering how it got there, and then surprised that he just left it there as he warily looked over to meet her shocked expression. Then he realized that she hadn’t moved either. She hadn’t summoned any magic, she wasn’t about to zap him, and he seeing how similar this touch was to the one that’d gotten him zapped previously, he couldn’t begin to fathom what that meant in terms of change. The deck underneath them dropped subtly and his left hand automatically sought the most stable thing within reach, falling almost comfortably onto her shoulder. Her eyes flicked over to his hand, and then back to his eyes, confusion and curiosity and was that excitement coloring the green of her irises? And what had his thumb started doing on its own, brushing against her cheek in small circles like that? Yet still she hadn’t hit him with lightning and sod it all—he embraced his stupidity and touched his lips to hers. Her nose was cold when his nudged against it, but her lips were warm and responsive, and she was _responding_ , and blessed Andraste, why hadn’t he done this ages ago? 

Then the wave that had warned them seconds before sent a spray up onto the deck and spattered across them both. Líadan gasped and swore and he started laughing. His laughter was infectious and she soon gave up the swearing to laugh with him again. The seas had calmed somewhat, and the waves that hit as they laughed sent only a few droplets up to the top deck’s level. Recovering from his laughing and from not being zapped when he dared to kiss her—had he really done that?—he leaned against the railing once more, this time watching the northern Fereldan coast slide by. 

Líadan leaned next to him, her forearm brushing against his. “We... shouldn’t do that again. We shouldn’t have done it in the first place. You’re... you. I’m... me. You’re a Fereldan prince, for Creators’ sake, and I’m Dalish.”

“Sod that and sod Eamon, if that’s what you’re referring to. I don’t give a nug’s ass what he thinks or that I’m a Theirin.”

“And what about Morrigan?”

He closed his eyes. “I... I don’t know.” And just like that, where he had been so sure and certain and how it had felt right, all of that went away, washed into a mire of uncertainty and impossibilities.


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

“When our people left Tevinter, we had nothing except the knowledge that for the first time in countless centuries, we were free.

It was Shartan’s dream that one day we would have our own homeland, where we could live as we chose. After the long struggle that claimed the lives of many, even Shartan himself, we were granted the Dales. And though the Dales were south of the land of Orlais, and a long way off from Tevinter, it mattered little. We were going home. And so we walked.

We called our journey the Long Walk, for that was what it was. We walked with what little we had on our backs. Some walked without shoes, for they had none. Whole families, women with infants, the old and young alike—all of them made their way across the land on foot. And if one of our people could no longer walk, we carried him, or sometimes left him behind.

Many perished along the way. Some died of exhaustion, others simply gave up and fell by the wayside. A great number were set upon by human bandits, even though we had few possessions. Along the way, a growing number began to bemoan the decision to leave Tevinter. ‘At least in Tevinter,’ they said, ‘we had food, and water, and shelter. What do we have here? Nothing but the open sky and the prospect of the never-ending road ahead.’ Some turned back toward Tevinter. But most of us continued walking.

And the gods rewarded those of us who did not waver by bringing us to the Dales. Our people called the new city Halamshiral—‘the end of the journey.’ And for a time, it was home.”

— _The Long Walk_ , as told by Gisharel, keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish

**Líadan**

She didn’t think it would’ve been possible to make things more awkward between her and Malcolm, but somehow they’d managed to do it. Interesting, how mentioning his Theirin blood, his obligation to Ferelden, and the assured objections of Arl Eamon had little to no effect on swaying Malcolm, yet once she invoked Morrigan’s name, the shift had been almost instant. He’d adjusted his posture slightly so that his arm no longer touched hers, and he probably wasn’t even aware that he’d done it. She said nothing, not protesting the change in attitude, because that was the way it had to be. Setting everything else aside—Grey Wardens, Fereldan prince, Dalish elf—there was still Morrigan. Despite what the witch had done to Malcolm, and to Líadan, she still felt somewhat guilty at the thought that something was developing between them. Oh, who was she kidding, something _had_ developed, even though they’d both struggled for nothing to happen.

Líadan wanted to kick him for being that stupid and leaning over and kissing her, yet at the same time, she wanted him to do it again. Creators, she was just as stupid as he was. And then there was _Morrigan_. The witch had been her friend during the Blight, nearly as close as a clanmate, so how could she not feel guilty about what she felt for Malcolm? What Morrigan and Malcolm had going between them previous to the night before the Battle of Denerim had been real to some degree. Something had been there. There was no way it had all been a trick on Morrigan’s part. That, to Líadan, made what Morrigan did even worse, because it meant Morrigan had hurt herself just as much as she’d hurt Malcolm. 

What if Malcolm did find Morrigan again? Would he stay with her? Would Morrigan want him to? Allow him to?

And where would that leave her if they allowed themselves to continue without answering that simple question? Well, not so simple, unless Morrigan was standing right in front of them, which she wasn’t. It made Líadan want to hunt down Morrigan herself and ask. She’d done so, once, during the Blight. Asked Morrigan point-blank if she loved Malcolm. The answer she’d gotten was: _“Love is a weakness.”_ Then the witch had changed the subject and Líadan never brought it up again in such an obvious way. Later, she’d changed her tactics, and used an assumptive question instead. Asked the witch why she loved Malcolm, because she herself had yet to see any redeeming qualities. Between the assumption and the not-so-veiled insult to Malcolm, Morrigan had seen fit to answer her. _“He is kind. As a lover, he was a quick study and is more skilled then one would think. He is open and honest, almost to a fault, nearly as much as his fool brother. He is also far more intelligent than he lets on, and far more observant. And he will always do what he believes is right, even if it means sacrifice. And, at times, he is infuriating, obstinate and argumentative. He will always need an equal in a woman, either in bed or as a partner.”_ The depth of emotion revealed in Morrigan’s voice had surprised Líadan, and it had betrayed exactly how the witch had felt about him. Given what the witch had revealed, Líadan had never expected Morrigan to do what she had done in the end.

That Malcolm had loved Morrigan was never in question. He had loved her absolutely, and fought for her against Arl Eamon and Arlessa Isolde and their meddling ways when it would’ve been far easier to just give in to make them shut up. But he hadn’t. He’d believed in what he and Morrigan had and so he refused to back down. It was his way.

What was it about procuring this god child that drove Morrigan to so deeply hurt the man she loved? To so deeply hurt herself? How had Líadan not been able to see the betrayal coming? She wondered if Morrigan would see Líadan’s shift in her feelings toward Malcolm as a betrayal. Perhaps it wasn’t, if Morrigan had known back then, which she might have. As the days went by, as they got closer and closer to that final battle with the archdemon, Morrigan had spoken more and more freely about Malcolm. She had dropped hints, Líadan could see now, looking back, about Malcolm needing someone in the future, about what type of woman would suit him, and how if she hadn’t been around, Líadan could be the right one.

Of course, she’d blown it off at the time. Malcolm had been nothing more than a comrade-in-arms, a brother Warden, and eventually, a best friend. It hadn’t been until he’d left Highever for Weisshaupt that she’d gotten antsy. He’d always been there since she’d been forced from her clan, even though she’d yelled at him, hit him with lightning, pushed him, and then when he was suddenly gone... it had brought back those moments from her youth. Those empty moments of realization and panic and emptiness when she’d discovered that the templars had killed her parents and she was alone. Certainly, she’d had the rest of her clan, but they were not bonds as strong as she’d had with her parents. With Malcolm, she had known, even back then, that no matter what she did, he wouldn’t stop caring. She had believed that he wouldn’t leave.

That is, until he did leave. And he could do it again, when they found Morrigan, if he decided to stay and Morrigan allowed it. But would she? Probably not, as it couldn’t be in whatever plans she had for the Old God child, or she wouldn’t have left like she had. But until she and Malcolm had an answer about Morrigan, they couldn’t put themselves at risk like this. They couldn’t do what they just did ever again, even if they wanted to, which, she knew, they did.

Which meant withdrawing from one another, as Malcolm was subconsciously doing as they watched the Fereldan coast pass by off the side of the ship. She would have to watch what they did, make sure they didn’t share any of those inadvertent touches or looks or smiles, maybe even their teasing and possibly even their fights. And yet she fought with herself over it, because they were going back to Highever once more, and she knew how much the history of the place tore at him. Highever was his home and yet it was not and the fear she occasionally saw drifting through his dark blue eyes told her that he’d yet to reconcile it. Like Morrigan had said, he needed someone. Because of what Morrigan had done, it couldn’t be her. But because they didn’t know Morrigan’s plans, it couldn’t be Líadan, either. Or anyone, really. 

She stole a glance over at the man standing next to her, at how the creases formed near his eyes, how his gaze had gone inward in troubled thought and taken on the lost look of a child caught far from home without his parents. Líadan knew that look, knew she had it often, herself. She wanted to reach out and at least place her hand on his, to let him know that as lost as he felt, he wasn’t alone. But she couldn’t and it hurt. Creators take her, she should’ve have known better than to let herself fall for a human man, especially this one. Then she remembered another snippet of conversation she’d had with Morrigan.

_“If love is a weakness, why do you allow yourself to love him?”_

_“Because... because he is worth it. For now.”_

Yet something had been worth more with that Old God child. Líadan held in a sigh, trying to think of something she could do to stop his brooding that wouldn’t remind them of the moment they’d just shared. The elf glanced down and watched as the sea smacked against the sides of the sleek ship and found an innocuous topic. “What kind of ship is this?”

“Pardon?” His voice was scratchy, as if roused from a nap.

“I mean, I know it’s a sailing ship. But, there’s all different types, right? I saw that in the harbor at Amaranthine.” She was careful not to look at him, as she could feel his eyes on her.

“Oh, um. She’s a Rialto Clipper. They’re named after the fast clippers they first started using up in Antiva’s Rialto Bay for trade. The ship’s design has a hull that’s sharp and v-shaped compared to the more broad hulls they use on the Amaranthine Ocean. In addition to being a favored ship for merchants, it’s also one of the most favored ships by pirates.”

“Pirates?”

“Yup. Fast and maneuverable, which is what pirates want.”

She fought a laugh, as his face had lit up like a little boy’s at the mention of pirates. Yet even though his enthusiasm could be infectious, she couldn’t muster enough interest in the subject of ships and sailing to come up with another related question. 

“Pirates used to use...” he trailed off as he picked up on her partial disinterest. “You don’t really even care, do you? You just wanted to change the subject away from Morrigan—not that I blame you for that—and now I’m boring you with all my talk about ships. No, no. Not boring you. Amusing you, somehow. You think I’m funny, blabbering on like a little kid enamored with the idea of being a pirate.”

She couldn’t stop the smirk that appeared on her lips as she finally turned to face him. “Well, you are, aren’t you? You totally want to be a pirate, I know it.”

“Well, I... maybe.” His eyes glanced away then quickly snapped back to hers, the turmoil gone, replaced by dancing mirth. “Okay, yes. Yes, I’d love to run away and become a pirate. There, I said it.” He rocked on his heels, as if pleased with himself.

“The Pirate Prince,” she said, tapping her chin as if seriously mulling over the idea. “Has a nice ring to it, I suppose.”

“Certainly a far sight better than the Bastard Prince.”

“True. Though I don’t think they call you that anymore, not since Alistair’s coronation. I guess that Landsmeet made you legitimate or something?”

“Recognized. Not sure if officially legitimate. Doesn’t matter, though, because if they want Theirins, Alistair and I are all they’ve got, legitimate or not.” He shrugged. “Pirate would be better, though. More fun, most likely.” He flashed her a grin. “What do you say? Want to run away with me and become a pirate, too? Líadan, Grey Lady of the Seas, the first Dalish pirate.”

Líadan gave him an odd look, hearing the hint of truth in his voice even through the lightness of his words. Part of him wanted to run away, as blatantly—at least to her—as when he’d been backing up onto the bowsprit earlier. “You’re not actually serious, are you?”

He remained silent for a moment, fingers brushing lightly on the railing, precipitously close to hers. “If I were, would you go with me?”

_Yes_. “But you wouldn’t run.”

Malcolm sighed. “No. No, I wouldn’t.” He pursed his lips in thought, and then asked, “But a nice fantasy though, isn’t it?”

Of their own accord, her eyes darted toward his lips and her mind rebelled and recalled the memory of what had happened only minutes before. Right in the middle of her calling him a jerk in Elvish and the surprise at the feel of the gentle touch of his fingers tracing over her tattoo and the warm tingle it had sent through her spine. Then staring at him only to find that he’d pressed his lips to hers and once she’d gotten over her initial shock, surprise at the strength of her own response. A response in kind instead of pushing him away or hitting him with a magical attack. Already, her hands had snaked up to his shoulders and her fingers had been quickly working towards the back of his neck... and she really needed to stop thinking about it. Obviously, since boring chats about ships weren’t working, she had to put some distance between them before she went against what she’d told him and made it happen again. “I suppose,” she said, and then pushed away from the railing. “Excuse me.” Before she lost her nerve, she turned and walked towards the back of the boat. _Stern_ , she corrected herself, hearing Malcolm’s voice in her head, and smiled, just a little.

On her way, she passed a large, sloppy coil of rope with Gunnar lounging on it, nearly covering the entire pile. Not particularly wanting the company of the other Wardens, and somehow still wanting something that connected her with Malcolm, she settled down next to the mabari. Gunnar’s tail wagged as soon as he saw her stop, and his head immediately descended to her lap once she was seated. Líadan wrapped her left arm around the dog’s thick, muscled neck and buried her fingers in the fur behind his ears. “Must be easy, most of the time, being a dog,” she said quietly to him. “I mean, you don’t have to worry about things like who it’s okay to love and how much. You just... feel as you feel and do what you do and everything works out. You don’t have to worry about competing for it or feeling guilty about how you feel.”

Gunnar huffed. She smiled down at him and scratched him in his favorite spot, right behind his ears.

“Yes, I know, it’s dangerous for you, too. You love with everything you have, so betrayal or abandonment for you is a thousand times worse. Is that how it was for you with Morrigan, too? Or did you see it coming? I know you loved her like you do Malcolm. And maybe me.”

He let out a soft bark before she could continue.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then. It’s okay, I love you, too. I just... I wish I had known what her plans were, you know? I doubt I could have stopped her. I truly doubt any of us could. But I would have asked her, at least, if she was going to leave Malcolm broken like he is, from what she did to him. Asked her if it would be safe for me to help him pick up the pieces, if he should move on or if he should try to get her back. But we don’t know, so we wait and wonder and never dare to hope.” Her eyes shifted to where Malcolm had stood at the railing, but he was gone. “It would be so much easier if I didn’t feel like this about him.”

A growl.

“Yes, yes, of course, I know you can’t choose who you love, elf or dwarf or human or you imprinting mabaris. You know, when we were at Highever before, Fergus told me about mabaris and imprinting. That if you lost Malcolm, you’d probably lose yourself.”

Gunnar let out a low whine and Líadan felt tears sting at her eyes. She hugged the dog and dropped a kiss on the top of his head. Then she rested her cheek there, the dark brown fur soft on her face. 

“Me, too,” she whispered.

In answer, the dog licked her arm, telling her that he understood. In the warm sunlight, comforted by the mabari’s massive bulk and staid presence, she dozed off. 

She woke up some time later, hearing and feeling the rumbles of Gunnar’s warning growl. 

“What’s this? You a stowaway, elf?” A scruffy sailor peered down at her, more curious than annoyed, yet still a threat.

The dog growled again, more loudly this time. 

“With a full-blooded mabari? Maker’s breath, is that _your_ dog?”

Líadan’s drowsiness disappeared as Gunnar’s hackles raised and they both got to their feet. The dog barked his own answer and Líadan had to suppress a laugh at the sailor’s wide-eyed look. “I’m not a stowaway,” she finally told the man. “I’m one—”

“One of the Grey Wardens,” came Malcolm’s voice as he walked up behind the sailor. “And that’s Gunnar, my mabari.” He’d pitched his voice to sound commanding, Líadan recognized the tone, knowing full well that Malcolm could’ve sounded very amiable if he’d been so inclined.

The color drained from the sailor’s face as he recognized Malcolm, and then looked back and forth between him and Líadan, recognizing her as well. “Andraste’s tits! I’m sorry, my lord prince, and you, my lady, I didn’t mean to disturb you or insult you—”

“It’s fine,” said Líadan. “And don’t call me ‘my lady.’ Líadan is fine, since that’s my name.” Now she was starting to see how Malcolm felt when people called him by any of those ridiculous titles they kept insisting on using. It got tiring, hearing ‘my lady’ and even sometimes ‘Warden.’ Being a Grey Warden was her job, and one she took seriously, at that, but it wasn’t who she was. 

“I’m sorry again,” said the sailor. “It’s just, well, you both fought the archdemon.” He glanced over at Malcolm. “And you’re the prince, I just don’t... you must excuse me.” Then the man practically ran away from them.

Líadan watched as the sailor scrambled up into the rigging before either she or Malcolm could say a word. Eyes narrowed, she turned an accusatory look on Malcolm. “You did that on purpose. You made yourself sound intimidating just to give that man a good scare.”

The corner of his mouth twitched as he tried to keep a straight face. “Maybe.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t need protecting. Aside from being able to handle myself, there’s also a rather large mabari here who’d take exception to my being harmed, you know.”

“Yes, I know. He’s like that with you and Fiona and Alistair. Well, all the Wardens, to some extent, but you and Fiona and my brother the most. He used to be like that with Morrigan, too.” His own mention of the witch brought a scowl to his face. “Anyway, you slept through most of the trip and we’re putting into port very soon.” He motioned toward the bow and Líadan saw what must be the city of Highever spread on the coast. Several ships were anchored in the harbor, and quite a few rowboats and pilot boats were moving in between the ships and the docks, with a few more ships directly tied to some of the larger piers. “We’ll be on that pier on the far right there,” he said. “We can question folks around there about the Tevinters, and then go to the castle on foot. It’s a short walk, around fifteen minutes or so. I think Fergus is expecting us. I hope, anyway, given how much the lot of us eat.”

“How long will we stay?”

“Through tomorrow. I want to make sure we’ve got the proper supplies and do a little more research in the library at the castle before we head out.”

She smiled, remembering the drawing that Malcolm had shown her the last time they were at the castle. “What, looking for more papers that talk about Delilah Howe being a... what was it that it said? A snooty nughead?”

He gave her a slight roll of his eyes, but smiled nonetheless. “Pighead. And no, I don’t think there are any more of those. I wanted to find a more detailed map of Drake’s Fall if I could, so I could compare it to the Deep Roads map we’ve got. It’ll take us a day to ride out to the base of the mountains. We’ll take a few of Highever’s guards to stay with the horses while we ascend. Once we’re up in the mountains, I’m not quite sure how long it’ll take to find the entrance. We could find it straight away or it could take a week or more. I just don’t know.”

“You want to be searching for her, don’t you?” The question was out before Líadan realized she was going to dare even to ask it. She immediately wanted to take it back, pretend it hadn’t been asked, that she hadn’t brought up, yet again, another awkward topic. But it was out there, already queried. She hadn’t even had to mention Morrigan by name for him to know who she was talking about.

Malcolm shuffled his feet a little, eyes darting away from her and toward the coast. “I... yes. I think so.” He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. Then he said, “You know, I came up with an idea, and I wanted to run it by you. I mean, an idea on how I can search for Morrigan without actively searching for her.” After Líadan nodded for him to continue, Malcolm then laid out a plan, a rather ingenious one, involving searching for whatever Morrigan was searching for, in the hopes that he would cross her path at some point while conducting said search. And his idea to ask Líadan was also a good one, because she knew what the witch wanted, at least in part.

“She’s looking for power,” said Líadan.

“I know. I mean, that’s what I figured. But what kind?”

“Ancient power. Ancient knowledge. Magic that has origins from before the Tevinter Imperium ever existed.” She wanted to say more, but realized that magic, the Tevinter Imperium, and ancient elves weren’t really subjects that should be spoken of in the open air of the deck of a ship. “And things we shouldn’t talk about right now.”

He understood the reason behind the reluctance. “Right. I suppose we should go gather the others. We’re nearly at the pier now.” Together, they fetched the rest of the Wardens from the stern or belowdecks. By the time they’d collected all the others, the ship had been tied to the pier and the gangway lowered. Gunnar instantly recognized where they were, barking happily and running up and down the pier. They stayed together and visited who they could on the docks, but got the same information they’d gotten in Amaranthine. There had been Tevinters, they’d asked about the Grey Wardens, and that was pretty much it. 

As they were leaving the docks district of the city, Líadan felt the twinge of magic. She came to a sudden halt and looked at Velanna. The other Dalish elf shrugged. It hadn’t been her and she’d felt it, too. Another look shot at Anders told her he wasn’t the culprit, either, and that he felt the magic, too. Líadan frowned and glanced around them, searching for the other mage. As her gaze settled on a dark alley, a plainly dressed older woman came out. To anyone not a mage or templar, she would look like any other elderly woman passing on the street. But to Líadan and the others, they could see beyond the frail old lady. 

“I heard you were asking about the Tevinters that came through here,” the woman said.

“Yes, we were,” said Malcolm. “We would love to hear any information you might’ve heard about them. Where they were going, what they talked about, anything. We’ll even pay you for your information, if it’s good.”

“And we’ll also not call any templars down on you,” said Anders.

Malcolm gave Anders a curious look. “Why would you...” Then he snapped his gaze back to the old woman. “Oh, you’re a hedge mage. Right. Yes, no templars. We’re Grey Wardens, so we don’t much care about Chantry business.” When the woman still seemed somewhat hesitant, Malcolm said, “I give you my word, good woman, and I hope that will do. I am—”

She smiled, and the sincerity of the woman’s smile lifted a good twenty years from her worn face and watery eyes. “Oh, I know who you are, young man. I’m old enough to remember what your grandmother Queen Moira looked like. Everyone might say you look like your father, but I see more of your grandmother in you. It’s the red in your hair, I think.” She gave him a kindly pat on the arm and Líadan had to bite her lip to keep from giggling at Malcolm’s gape. 

“Um, thank you,” Malcolm replied after a moment of staring.

“Unlike the rest of these people, I can speak Arcanum, so I could understand those Tevinters when I heard them talk amongst themselves. They were looking for you Grey Wardens, yes, and that’s what they told everyone they talked to. But they are also looking for someone they call the Witch. Also, one of them was a mage.”

“Not really a surprise there,” said Anders. “They _are_ Tevinters, after all. You can’t swing a dead cat in the Imperium without hitting a mage.”

“What kind of barbaric shemlen act is that?” Velanna asked him. 

Anders rolled his eyes. “It’s a figure of speech. As in, just an expression. No one is actually going to go around swinging cats, dead or alive. Andraste’s knickers, must you take everything so seriously?”

“Yes,” Velanna replied. “Most of you shems do not. Therefore, someone has to.”

Líadan felt like smacking her forehead with her palm. Velanna really did nothing to improve relations between humans and elves. It seemed for every step forward Líadan inadvertently made, Velanna purposefully took three back. Líadan empathized, she really did, with what had happened with Velanna, at least with her sister and her niece, though not so much her exile from her clan. But this woman was so incredibly thickheaded and difficult and prone to violence in huge extremes that it became hard to show any of that empathy. 

As for Malcolm, he ignored the byplay and remained focused on the old woman. “What makes you mention the mage part?”

“I believe he’s a maleficar,” she answered.

He raised an eyebrow. “How do you know? I mean, they don’t exactly go around advertising that fact, I don’t think. Especially outside the Imperium.”

“Impertinent young man, aren’t you?” said the woman. “Now _that_ is something I believe your father would have said.” She ignored Malcolm’s half-outraged, half-embarrassed look and continued. “He had a small dagger on his belt, different from a normal eating knife. And his left hand had a small, shiny scar about the width of the dagger’s blade. My guess is that he isn’t a very good healer, if at all, and so he can’t heal himself after he cuts himself to cast his blood magic.”

“My apologies, my lady,” Malcolm said, giving the woman a small bow. “That is a very good observation. And useful, probably more useful than you know. Thank you.” He fetched a few sovereigns from his coinpurse and pressed them into the woman’s hand.

She smiled warmly up at him, squeezed his hand, and then said farewell before disappearing into the shadows again.

“You never asked her name,” said Velanna.

Malcolm turned to face the Dalish elf. “No, I didn’t. It’s better that way. She’s a hedge mage, a healer, I think. She’s done well enough hiding from the Chantry all these years. My guess is that she’s probably been in Highever for a very long time. It’s better if the nobility doesn’t know about her at all, and I certainly never knew about her as a child. I don’t think Fergus knows her or that our parents did, either.”

Velanna frowned. “I thought your father was one of the prior shemlen kings.”

He sighed and started walking out into the rest of the city, the rest of the Wardens following. “It’s complicated.”

“So it isn’t true? You are not a prince?”

Malcolm didn’t answer. Líadan thought it wise, as it seemed Velanna just wanted to pick another fight, and this was a particularly sore subject with Malcolm. Especially when they were just returning to Highever with Nathaniel Howe accompanying them as a full Warden, when it had been Howe’s father who’d killed Malcolm’s foster parents. Of course, Velanna didn’t know this and would keep poking away at it until Malcolm lost his temper, which was what she probably wanted in the first place. On seeing Velanna readying another question, Líadan picked up her pace to walk next to the other elf. “Let it go,” she said.

“Just because there rest of you are content to believe his falsehoods—”

“He told you the truth. There’s a long, painful story behind all this that you don’t know, so be careful where you go prodding tempers. You aren’t the only one who has ever had a family member murdered. You should try to remember that.”

“I didn’t know,” Velanna answered quietly, sounding repentant, if that were possible for her.

“Because you didn’t ask, you _accused_ , like you always do.” Líadan took a calming breath. “The really short explanation is that the human nobles here in Highever were Malcolm’s foster parents. They were killed just before the Blight, along with his sister-in-law and his nephew when his foster family was betrayed by another member of the human nobility. His older foster brother Fergus only survived because he’d been sent ahead to Ostagar before the attack. So watch what you say while we’re here. He’s been polite and sympathetic about what happened with you, so try and extend the same basic courtesy to him. You know, be a decent person for once.”

Though it was truly beyond her how an exile could be fundamentally decent. For a clan to truly give up on one of its members so thoroughly as to cast her away like garbage meant the person was fairly well gone in terms of worth. But, Riordan had made this woman a Grey Warden, and given Líadan and Malcolm the responsibility of helping her fully integrate into the Order, and so they dealt with her as best they could. Though Líadan did see the irony in the whole thing, having the two people who were the most uncooperative conscripts in recent history be the ones helping someone else learn to be a Warden. While Nathaniel was a conscript, he’d taken to being a Warden awfully quickly. And he seemed to get along decently with Velanna, something of a feat in of itself. Líadan was Dalish and could barely stand to be around her, even knowing what had happened to the woman’s family. 

“ _Abelas_ ,” said Velanna. “ _Emmadar atisha._ ”

“ _Ma serannas._ I hope you will indeed be peaceful.”

Anders drifted up to walk with them. “What secrets are you two going on about? I can hear you up here speaking Elvish.”

“Nothing exciting,” said Líadan, while Velanna huffed at Anders’ appearance and dropped behind them to walk with Nathaniel. The broody archer was the only one of them Velanna seemed able to tolerate to any degree, probably due to his tendency to remain silent.

“Aw, too bad,” said Anders, putting on a frown. “Especially after that really boring journey on the ship.” He leaned closer to her, whispering almost conspiratorially,“Then again, I was stuck belowdecks playing a card game with Ser Broods-a-Lot back there. What were you doing, I wonder, after I healed you?”

She narrowed her eyes, but forced herself not to look over at the other mage. Instead, she watched the scenery around them as they exited the small city and entered the countryside. A surprising amount of sheep surrounded the rolling hills around the port city. Líadan idly wondered how much revenue in Highever came from wool and not trade from the port. 

“Oh, not going to tell me, are you?” He grinned. “No matter. I bet you I can guess.”

“I bet you can shut up.”

“I saw you,” Anders said in a sing-song voice, not heeding her warning. “And, I think you liked it.”

“I think you should seriously consider shutting up before I seriously consider cutting out your tongue,” Líadan shot back.

Anders laughed, but draped a reassuring arm around the elf’s shoulders. “It’s all right. I won’t tell a soul.”

“Tell a soul what, mage?” asked Oghren. 

Líadan wanted to kill them both with her bare hands.

“Well,” Anders said slowly, “I suppose I can tell you. You see, last night, when Líadan was drunk from whatever card game it was you three were playing, she accidentally walked into _my_ room and tried to get into _my_ bed.”

That’s it, she was going to kill him. Slowly and painfully. “I did no such thing! I stayed in Malcolm’s room—” She clapped her hand over her mouth, realizing exactly what that sounded like. As Anders burst into gleeful laughter, Oghren joining in, Líadan slowly removed her hand from her mouth and glared at the both of them. They were each laughing so hard that they were having difficulty walking.

“You stayed in that shem’s room?” asked Velanna.

“Oh, come on, so did Oghren,” said Líadan, spinning around to face the other Dalish elf while continuing to walk backwards. “We were all drunk.”

“Is that so, my lady?” Nathaniel raised one of his eyebrows as his mouth started to twitch. When Líadan made eye contact with him, he started to chuckle. 

“I... It’s not what you think.” Líadan made a frustrated sound as she glared at each and every one of them, as now even Velanna had started to show signs of amusement instead of outrage. They _knew_ nothing had happened and yet they insisted on acting like she was admitting that something had. “You know what? Fine. Creators take all of you.” The turned back around and stormed up to walk next to Malcolm, leaving the rest of the Wardens behind.

“Anders set you up,” Malcolm said when she got close. “I mean, he set you up _good_. I haven’t seen a setup like that since one of Zevran’s during the Blight.”

“Creators help me, if you start laughing, Malcolm, I will feed _you_ to the darkspawn,” Líadan told him. “And not them.” She ignored the strained noises coming from his throat as he desperately swallowed his laughter. Gunnar trotted up next to her and huffed at Malcolm. Líadan took solace in that at least the dog cared about her dignity, even if her fellow Wardens did not.

They walked in silence for a time until they crested the next hill and caught their first glimpse of Highever Castle since they’d left it weeks ago for Vigil’s Keep. On seeing the castle, Malcolm’s surefooted steps faltered for a brief moment and his breathing hitched. On Líadan’s left, Gunnar snuffled and bumped into her, his heavy, muscled body nudging her lithe one towards Malcolm. She started muttering a curse at the mabari, but when she caught the look in his eyes, she understood the reason why the dog meddled. Knowing what it would cost her, and suddenly not caring, she reached out and squeezed Malcolm’s hand in hers. Then she quickly let go, but not before he turned to give her questioning look, and then graced her with a smile.


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

“In the silence the two hunters held.

Dane, spear-armed against the wolf with all his brood,

Knew with sinking heart that he was lost

Steeled for the winding roads of the Fade.

Then the beast spoke, human-like in voice,

‘You have taken this stag from my woods, and my pack

But nothing comes without a cost.’”

—from _The Saga of Dane and the Werewolf_ , 4:50 Black

**Malcolm**

Highever Castle.

He wondered why it was that he was always in such a hurry to get here, and then once he arrived, he wanted to be away. At least this time when they arrived, there were no darkspawn there to greet them. No strange conversations with a talking darkspawn, no ogres crushing the life out of Líadan. And hopefully no templars, either from Ferelden or from Orlais. Then again, templars would come in handy right now, because he could send them chasing after the Tevinter blood mage. At least their group of Wardens had been expected this time. The guards told them as much when they walked up to the barbican, offering sincere smiles and effusive greetings as they walked through the sally port into the main yard. Fergus was soon out to welcome them, forgoing having the seneschal see them in, Alistair not far behind and mumbling something about having gotten away from Eamon. 

After clasping arms with his younger brother, the king scooped Líadan up in a hug, shocking the elf and earning him a few solid punches to his unarmored chest.

“You never greet me like that, pike-twirler,” Oghren grumbled, as Líadan muttered dark curses toward the human king and straightened her tabard.

“Why, Oghren, I didn’t know you cared for me like that,” Alistair replied, and then started advancing on the dwarf. “If you’d like, I could pick you up and swing you around so you don’t feel left out. We certainly wouldn’t want that.”

“Bah! You beardless excuse for a king, you couldn’t pick me up on your best day!”

“That sounded remarkably like a challenge,” said Anders. “I wonder how far he could throw him once he picks him up. I suppose it would depend on the technique, if there’s even a technique to dwarf-tossing.”

Malcolm looked between Oghren and Alistair, and then over at Anders. “Two sovereigns says that Alistair can throw him at least six feet.”

Anders nodded. “I’ll take that bet.”

“I’m in at seven feet,” said Fergus. “I mean, if Oghren doesn’t struggle, he could probably toss him at least ten.”

Velanna gaped at all of them. “Is this how you shemlen normally act around your king?”

“No,” said Líadan. “This is fairly tame. Normally they’re _much_ more like a pack of little boys.” Then she looked at Anders. “Five feet.” Velanna shot her fellow Dalish elf a look of shocked betrayal, to which Líadan only smirked.

“Now that’s just insulting,” Alistair said to Líadan. “I could drop-kick him that far if I wanted.”

“We aren’t drop-kicking Oghren though, are we? This is a tossing challenge.”

“There will be no dwarf tossing or dwarf kicking!” Oghren shouted at the group. “You can get that idea out of your Stone-taken minds right now. I’d rather kiss a nug than have the pike-twirler’s paws on me.”

“And here I thought you were the betting sort,” said Fergus. “Teagan told me about the barrel of pickle juice bet.”

“That’s different. If something needs to be eaten or drunk, I’m your man,” said Oghren.

“I... I have no words,” said Velanna.

“Better that you don’t,” said Nathaniel. “Otherwise, I fear for all of us to where this conversation might lead.”

“Fine, I’ll leave you alone for now, Oghren,” Alistair told the dwarf. “But watch what you complain about, because one day I’ll make good on my threats. I know for a fact that you’re all talk.” Then the king looked over at Velanna. “And who is this?”

“She’s a new Grey Warden—” Malcolm started.

“I can introduce myself just fine, shem,” Velanna interrupted with a nasty glare at Malcolm. Then she met Alistair’s look. “I am Velanna, formerly of the Calliel clan... and now a Grey Warden.” She used the same introduction that Líadan had used back in the Wending Wood. Interesting, Malcolm thought, and glanced surreptitiously at Líadan. Yes, as he’d suspected, she found Velanna’s adoption of her usual introduction to be irritating. Riordan really was punishing them for something by forcing them to work with Velanna like this. If only he could figure out exactly what that something was so he could stop doing it.

“I am sorry for what happened—” Alistair started.

Velanna cut him off with a sharp, upraised hand. “I do not need the sympathies of a shemlen king.”

Malcolm wondered if this was what Duncan had felt like at Ostagar, when Malcolm, frustrated with his situation, had mouthed off to Cailan. Except he didn’t bother trying to glare at Velanna, because he knew it would have no effect at all. Instead, he felt resigned, and didn’t care whether or not it showed on his face. Velanna, like Líadan, would do what she would do, and pretty much all he could do was fix the mess they left behind. Though, part of him did wish he could inform Velanna that the ‘shemlen king’ wasn’t as shemlen as the Dalish elf assumed. While having no recent Dalish ancestry, Alistair was, after all, half-elf. Malcolm traded a look with his brother, and caught the slight smirk forming on Alistair’s mouth. He’d had the same thought. The same smirk played on Líadan’s lips, as well, and Malcolm knew there was a similar expression on his own face. Their own little conspiracy, it seemed.

Finally, Alistair just offered a small shrug. “Well, the sympathies and apologies stand, nonetheless. I entirely support the sentence Riordan passed and carried out on the kidnapper, as well. Though I’d like to hear more about these templars that passed through Navan.”

“I’d like to hear less about templars,” said Anders. “Well, not exactly. It depends on the context. Templars meeting their doom in fiery flames, that I’d like to hear more about.”

“I’m for less templars overall,” said Líadan.

“Hey, we aren’t all bad,” said Alistair.

Malcolm raised an eyebrow at Alistair. “Not a templar, brother. You’ve a new career. Better pay, less lyrium addiction, winning situation overall in being a king. Must you always forget?”

“Not with you reminding me, I won’t.”

Behind the small group, the main doors parted and Arl Eamon walked into the courtyard. “And the party is over,” Malcolm muttered, not missing the immediate exchange of glares between Líadan and the arl. He’d have to somehow keep the two of them separated, though he wasn’t sure how that could be accomplished. Líadan wasn’t a person to be controlled in any way by another, and Arl Eamon was bound and determined to browbeat him and Alistair into adopting his ridiculously pro-Theirin bloodline point of view.

As Eamon got closer, the glare between him and Líadan grew in its intensity, and the rest of the group began to shift uncomfortably. It felt like the argument in the study at the Vigil hadn’t stopped at all and they would leap right back into it as soon as they were within earshot. Fergus, taking note of the developing situation, jumped in to stop it, almost literally. He quickly stepped between the two of them, breaking the line of sight. “Eamon! There you are. The group from the Vigil has arrived, as you can see. We were going to meet to discuss their mission in Drake’s Fall, I believe.” He glanced at Malcolm for confirmation. “Have I got that right?”

Malcolm nodded. “Yes. Drake’s Fall and the Deep Roads entrance, among other things.”

“Tevinters and templars?” asked Alistair.

He resisted a sigh. “Yes. Them, too.”

“I’ll have people show you to your rooms,” said Fergus, “and then we can meet in the main hall in an hour or so. My study is too small for all of us, I think.”

Servants started leading the others to the guest quarters as Eamon fell into step with Alistair as they walked toward the main hall. Malcolm looked from one group to the other, pack heavy on his back. He knew he’d be staying in his old room, as he had last time. While this would keep him blissfully away from Eamon, it meant he wouldn’t be able to stay in between Líadan and Eamon. Alistair would be there, but Malcolm wasn’t sure how much he’d interfere, if at all, due to how entertaining he found their confrontations to be. While Malcolm had to admit to the arguments having an entertainment value, they risked too much, to him, in hurting people emotionally. Líadan had been truly offended by Eamon’s words before at the Vigil, and Malcolm was certain anything else the arl said would be just as or even more hurtful. She didn’t deserve anything Eamon threw at her, and since it was due to Eamon focusing on Malcolm’s heritage, Malcolm felt it was his responsibility to make sure Eamon knocked it off, if he could. 

Fergus had remained behind after the other Wardens and Eamon had gone. He gave his brother a puzzled look as Malcolm continued to study the main doors, searching for a solution. “What’s wrong?” Fergus asked, walking closer to him.

“Eamon.”

“Yes, I noticed the glare he gave Líadan. What was that about? Did she insult his mother or something? I really didn’t like seeing him act like that toward a guest of mine, either.” Fergus sighed. “He never would’ve acted like that were Father here, I know that much.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Malcolm. “It has to do with his obsession with there being a Theirin king and a Theirin heir and wanting as many Theirin heirs as possible, apparently.”

“What? What has Líadan got to do with any of that?” Fergus looked from Malcolm, towards the keep, and back again. “Oh. _Oh_. I see.” The teyrn chuckled to himself. “The thing with you and her and he thinks that... ha.” He chuckled some more. “He did the same thing with you and Morrigan and it got him nowhere, so I really don’t see why he bothers. If he’s that obsessed, he should be working on Alistair getting married instead of worrying about you and whatever you’re doing. You’re the younger brother, not the actual king. It’s Alistair’s job to make sure he has an heir, not yours. It isn’t really the purview of the younger brother. Teagan is a fine example of that, as he should have married ages ago.” Then Fergus frowned. “Ah. Maybe that’s part of why Eamon is focusing on both of you then, and not just Alistair. With Connor being a mage, Eamon’s only heir becomes _his_ younger brother. And Teagan hasn’t any heirs of his own, so the Arling of Redcliffe could pass from the Guerrin family entirely after Eamon’s generation. Bit of projection there, I think.”

“Doesn’t help resolve the current situation,” Malcolm said. “Though, it does explain some things, such as why he’s acting like he is.” He took a breath and released it as he pondered. “But Eamon posed the idea to Alistair about marrying Anora, even though we discovered a letter in Cailan’s documents left at Ostagar that Eamon had been pressuring him to set Anora aside in order to marry a new wife that could provide him with heirs.”

Fergus frowned slightly. “Between you and me, I don’t think Anora was the problem there. Cailan had more than a few mistresses and none of them produced any bastards, no more than Anora was able to provide a legitimate child.” The frown deepened into a full scowl. “And for him to ask Cailan to set aside his wife? Really? Even though Cailan strayed, he still loved Anora, though sometimes I wasn’t sure if it was because she was able to run the kingdom for him or some other aspect of her sparkling personality.”

“She’s not that bad,” Malcolm said, surprising himself. “Under all that political ability she has, there’s a decent person there. I mean, she saw reason and sided with us during the Landsmeet when she could have stabbed us in the back just as easily. And for some reason, she loved Cailan, despite his unrealistic idealism and his sadly philandering ways.” He sighed. “I don’t know. A marriage between her and Alistair could work. There’d be a struggle for power between them, in some ways, as Alistair has learned a lot in the past few months. He’s learned enough where he’s far more independent than Eamon likes, it seems. But Alistair hated Loghain and Anora is Loghain’s daughter—and I’m not sure if Alistair could ever see past that. Then Anora, well, Alistair looks like a lot Cailan. It’d be pretty hard for her to be married to her dead husband’s brother when they look so much alike.” He blinked in surprise. “Why am I even talking about this? Or thinking about it?”

“That’s Mother’s doing,” Fergus said with a smirk. “After all those years spent trying to devise matches for the both of us, we were doomed to pick up something in her reasoning.”

“I wish she was around to put Eamon in his place.” Malcolm couldn’t help the appearance of the grin at the thought of Teyrna Eleanor in a righteous anger set loose on the arl.

Fergus smiled, and then squinted up at the keep. “You know, I think she would have liked Líadan. I’m just saying, little brother.”

Malcolm wasn’t falling for it. “Saying what, exactly?”

The teyrn indicated for Malcolm to follow, and the two brothers started a slow stroll on the outdoor grounds of the castle. At first, the only sound was the crunch of their footfalls on the crushed stone of the path running along the base of the castle’s outer walls. Then Fergus said, “I’m saying a lot, really, and I think you know it. Eamon isn’t the problem here, not really. An obstacle, yes, but not much of one. He’s older than us, I know, and in some ways wiser, and in others, not so much. All of us outrank him—me, being a teyrn, you, being a prince, and Alistair certainly, since he’s the king. As respected as he is in the Landsmeet, he isn’t revered like Alistair is. Like you are, like it or not. It’s more than your Theirin blood, too, it’s everything the two of you did during the Blight. He’s mostly bluster and sometimes useful with occasional gems of wisdom. The thing is, he isn’t the issue here.”

He wasn’t quite sure where Fergus was going with all this, but he had a pretty strong suspicion. However, he wasn’t going to cut his brother off. Fergus deserved a say, and he often had really good insights. “I’m listening.” As they walked, Malcolm reached out with his left arm and trailed his fingers lightly on the rough-hewn stone of the wall.

Fergus nodded, eyes focused ahead of them. “Good, since I’m never sure if you are. The issue is, well, Morrigan. Now, I don’t know what it is that she did—”

Malcolm made the decision to tell Fergus the truth in its entirety. With what was happening with the Architect and the Mother, not to mention the appearance of Tevinters, Fergus not only deserved to know, he _needed_ to know so that he could fully protect Highever. “She did something that could be horrible.”

“I... gathered that much, with the Grey Wardens looking for her and all. As a teyrn, I want to know what that was, if you can tell me.” Fergus came to a halt and faced Malcolm. “But, as your brother, I want to know what she did to _you_.”

He met his brother’s gaze for a moment, and then had to look away, blinking rapidly at the threat of tears. Again. How was it that even months later, the subject of Morrigan and what had happened could be so raw when spoken about out loud? 

“That’s what I mean,” Fergus said quietly. “The big brother part of me wants to go out and find this woman and yell at her for hurting you, and I don’t even know what it was that she did, exactly. I know you. I’m your brother. I’ve known you since you were a babe. I watched you grow up into the man you are right now, and you turned out to be a good one. This woman hurt you pretty bad, more than you let on, I think. What did she do?”

For a moment, Malcolm remained silent, searching for a bench he knew would be nearby in this section of Highever Castle’s grounds. Once he found it, he sat down and let out a long breath. Fergus sat next to him, keeping his quiet, waiting for Malcolm’s forthcoming answer. He was right. He did know his brother, and certainly well enough to know to patiently wait for a forthcoming explanation. Then in slow, stumbling sentences, Malcolm told Fergus what had happened the night before the Battle of Denerim. The offer Morrigan had made, one that would both guarantee all the Grey Wardens, including himself, would have lived, and at the same time, have given her a child with the soul of an Old God. Then, when he had refused her offer, she had left him for doing so. Not only that, she had gone to one of his closest friends and somehow talked him into accepting her offer. And even though she had gotten what she wanted, she had still left, not even staying to help with that final battle, because Malcolm had given her that initial refusal. “So I don’t even know how she really felt about me. I don’t know if she loved me like I loved her. Honestly, it... it scares me to think that she just played me. That she tricked me into thinking that she felt the same as I did in the hopes that it would have made me agreeable to what she really wanted in the end—that damned Old God child.”

“Does it matter now?” Fergus asked.

Malcolm gave him a puzzled look. “What? Of course it matters.”

“Here’s the thing—even if you find her, is she ever coming back?”

“I don’t know.” Malcolm reached down and pulled up some of the grass growing under the bench, tearing it into strips. “I don’t even know if she... if _we_ were ever there in the first place. I mean, if it wasn’t, and I was fooled that badly, how can I trust anything that I feel or that I think someone else might feel? That’s why it matters, because until I know, I just don’t _know_.”

“Even if she told you, would you believe her? Or if you did believe her, were you to see her, wouldn’t you end up questioning yourself over and over again later, just as you are now?”

“I don’t know. Probably. Maybe? I need to look into her eyes one more time so I can _see_.”

Fergus sighed, tugging at the sleeves of his doublet. “She’s running away, you know that, right? With all these people you say looking for her—including Flemeth—she can’t stay on Thedas. Even as far as she seems now, soon she’ll be entirely gone and out of everyone’s reach if she isn’t caught, which I don’t think she will be. But if you did find her, and you believed her if she said she did truly love you, would you go with her? Would you leave everything behind to be with her? Because that’s what it will come down to, you know. She’s proven that she believes in whatever plan she has with this Old God child that she will do whatever it takes to make it come to fruition. So she certainly won’t stay here with you, because there’s no way you could protect her from all the people that want to capture or kill her. Maybe you can keep her from the darkspawn. Maybe from the Grey Wardens, if the Old God child proved not to be a danger—mind you, I’m not holding my breath on that one. But the Tevinter Imperium? The Chantry? They would call an Exalted March on you, on Ferelden if they had to in order to get to Morrigan if they thought you were harboring her. She wouldn’t stay. But would you leave?”

An image formed in Malcolm’s mind, legions of templars and Chevaliers laying siege to Highever or the Vigil. Fleets of Tevinter ships blocking the harbors of every port city on the northern coast of Ferelden. All of those armies and navies focused on one thing—killing Morrigan. Against thousands, against hundreds of thousands, his martial skills would mean nothing, drowned in sheer numbers of determined foes as the Grey Wardens and the king had been at the Battle of Ostagar. “I couldn’t protect her, could I?” he asked Fergus quietly.

“No.” Fergus mentioned nothing of the wife and child of his own that he’d been unable to protect due to other obligations that had carried him away from them. Then again, Oriana and Oren should never have been in danger by remaining at Highever Castle. Though the events that led to their deaths had been unforeseen, Malcolm knew Fergus still held himself partly accountable, simply because he hadn’t been physically present to at least try to keep them safe.

“I gave her my word, you know. I said that I would always protect her.” Malcolm closed his eyes and her reply came to him, the panic in her voice, the slight hint of shock that someone would make such a declaration for _her_ , of all people: _“You should not be so... you have no idea what will happen in the days to come, to make such promises. There is much to be done before... there is still much to be done.”_ Now, months later, what felt like years later, he knew what she hadn’t said, what that unspoken action was: her ritual. And yet he could only think of her eyes, vulnerability in her golden eyes that was rarely ever there, entirely surprised whenever anyone expressed a feeling of love or devotion or caring in relation to her. He’d taken it to be something left from how she was raised, that she’d never believed someone could love her, as Flemeth certainly never had. But, looking back, it could have been surprise for another reason—that her ruse had worked, and worked so well. But he didn’t want to believe he was that horrible at reading people. He couldn’t be, because surely he would’ve been backstabbed more times than he had were he that terrible.

“Putting aside what she did to you and how that should have negated any promises you made to her... you cannot protect her. Not here. The only way you could protect her would be to let her go. And then the choice becomes whether or not you go with her, were you to have the chance. So, Malcolm Theirin, Grey Warden, Prince of Ferelden, friend, and wayward little brother of mine, what would you do? What _will_ you do, when you find her? Will you leave?”

“I...” Malcolm studied the small pile of torn grass pieces cupped in the palm of his hand. The wind picked up as the light started to wane, bearing the scent of salt and the crisp promise of winter. He opened his palm and the wind took the grass and carried it away, scattering it across the wilted gardens of autumn. _I have to let her go, but how can I?_ “No. I can’t leave. There’s too much... I have too much... everything is here, except her. And I am not...” _I am not worth your distraction. And you... are not worth mine._ “I am not that important to her.” He had responsibilities and duties as well, as his brother had not-so-subtly brought up. As much as he might argue with Eamon about bloodlines and things like that, he’d seen how people looked at him and Alistair during the Blight. He knew how they looked at him now. He had a duty to Ferelden and its people as a prince. As a Grey Warden, he had a duty to Thedas to continue to protect them from the darkspawn. He’d made an oath that could not be forsworn. And duty aside, there were other people he couldn’t leave behind. Fergus, the brother sitting next to him, Alistair, his other brother and fellow Warden, he didn’t want to be left as the only ruling Theirin. And there was Fiona, he’d only just _found_ her and to leave without the chance to really get to know her, and then there was...

“But you are that important to someone else,” said Fergus.

_Líadan_. “Am I?”

His brother let out a light, amused scoff. “Yes.” A pause, as if Fergus wanted to say more, yet held back for some reason. Then he said, “And she is that important to you, whether you’ve let yourself realize it or not.” The teyrn rose to his feet, brushing invisible dirt from his clothing. “We need to get to the main hall. I’m sure everyone else is there by now.”

Malcolm, whose gaze had followed the scattered grass, suddenly said, “I kissed her.” And he felt a sort of giddiness as he admitted it.

“You what?”

“You heard me. On the ship. Then she...”

“Slapped you? Hit you with a bolt of lightning again? Set you on fire?”

Had she done any of those things in reaction to his incredibly stupid and impetuous action, it would certainly have been easier to deal with. The lines would’ve been clear, feelings wouldn’t be a confused, muddled mire, and it wouldn’t matter if he had lingering feelings or not for a witch who’d scorned him. “No. She... kissed me back, actually.” 

“Really? Should I have made different guest arrangements, then?”

“Ha. No.” Yet Malcolm still flushed, cursing inwardly at the color he knew burned on his cheeks. “Because, after, she said we should never let it happen again.”

“That bad of a kisser, are you?” said Fergus. 

Malcolm gave him a light shove for the comment. “It had nothing to do with that and everything to do with Morrigan.”

“Did you honestly expect something different?”

He sighed. “I just hadn’t thought Morrigan would come up so soon.”

“Yes, well. She’s smart. And that’s only one of many reasons why Mother would’ve liked her. Look, she isn’t going to risk anything with a guy who might run off to an entirely foreign and unreachable land with another woman. Another woman who has already betrayed that man once, I might add. You think you aren’t that important to Morrigan and you know how it feels to be in that position. Don’t you think that Líadan might wonder the same? This is what you need to figure out before you think about trying to kiss her again: is she more important to you than anything else in your life?”

“I...” He could barely comprehend the question, much less begin to form an answer.

Fergus threw a friendly arm around his shoulders. “You don’t have to answer that right now, and you don’t even need to tell me when you do think of the answer. There are two people that need to know—you and Líadan. That’s it. Not even Morrigan, wherever she is.” He tilted his head to the side. “Though it would’ve been fun to have Líadan sleeping in the same room as you, just to see how Eamon would react.”

“I think he’d have a heart attack. Or a stroke. Possibly both.” He slid a glance over at his brother. “You didn’t put them in rooms near each other, did you?”

“Of course not. I’d rather not have a small war raging underneath my roof if I can help it and they’re certainly brewing for one. No, I assigned her and that other Dalish elf—Velanna, was it?—to the guest quarters nearer to the family quarters. Alistair is up there, too. Eamon is where I had the templars, and the rest of the Wardens are in the normal guest quarters.”

Malcolm’s stomach dropped at the idea of Líadan and Velanna having to be in close proximity overnight in an enclosed space. “Tell me you didn’t put Velanna and Líadan in the same room.”

“No, they’re in separate rooms. Just across the hall from each other. Dare I ask why?”

“Let’s just say there’s no love lost between them. You’ll understand after the meeting, though, exactly why. It’s not a fun story to tell, so I really don’t want to tell it twice.”

“Fair enough.”

The two brothers continued on in silence to the main hall. There, they found the rest of guests gathered, waiting for their arrival. Malcolm immediately took charge of the meeting, explaining their plans in Drake’s Fall and how open-ended the time it took would be. He explained the Tevinter presence and revealed that they, too, were looking for Morrigan. Then he told the story of what’d happened in the Wending Wood and the templar connection, his rendition giving far more emotional detail and depth than Riordan’s preceding missive due to the medium of the written word. 

Alistair looked troubled, and understandably so, as he sat leaning against one of the tapestries decorating the walls of Highever’s main hall. “We’ll have to notify the Chantry about the dead templars,” he said. “And the missing one. We... we need to find her, if we can.”

“I know,” said Malcolm.

“Hard to believe that a templar did something good,” said Líadan. 

Malcolm raised an eyebrow, surprised that the sentiment came from her and not Velanna or Anders. 

She caught the look. “What? I’m a mage. It’s allowed.”

“I... nothing.” He quickly looked to Alistair and Fergus. “Anyway, we’ll use tomorrow to make sure we’ve the right supplies, and I wanted to check the maps in the library. We’ll head for the mountains at first light the next day.” After the king and the teyrn both gave short nods of approval, Malcolm dismissed everyone for the evening, save they make an appearance at supper in an hour’s time. Of course, he didn’t really need to order Grey Wardens to show up at a mealtime, especially not when the meal was free. Malcolm stayed behind, knowing Alistair and Fergus might want to talk more. Anders, Oghren, Nathaniel, and Velanna left without a second glance, but Líadan stopped at the door, hesitantly looking at Malcolm, as if she had something to say. Then her gaze flicked to Eamon and she frowned and promptly walked out of the room. Malcolm had to stop himself from laughing out loud.

Once the rest of the Wardens had cleared the room, Fergus ordered the guards outside and the doors closed. The teyrn looked no less troubled after the doors were shut and sat down heavily in one of the chairs near the wall. Alistair hadn’t moved from his own chair, his head lolling against the wool tapestry as he stared at the ceiling. Eamon, on the other hand, had a determined look to him, a determined look that Malcolm wasn’t fond of. However, he would ignore it for as long as he could. “How bad will it be with the Chantry, Alistair?” Malcolm asked.

Alistair blinked, bringing his attention from the ceiling and to his younger brother. “I’m honestly not sure. It might not be bad at all. The Grand Cleric of Ferelden hasn’t gotten back to me yet about the templars demanding you accompany them to Val Royeaux, and that bothers me.  And the Divine is supposed to be polite and ask a reigning monarch for permission to send foreign templars into their country before just sending them. Needless to say, she didn’t do that, and I’m not sure if the Grand Cleric knew or not. Since, you know, she hasn’t responded.”

“Do you think the Divine would call an Exalted March on Ferelden?”

The king shrugged and held out empty hands. “For what? It isn’t like we’re harboring Morrigan. I mean, we’re fairly certain she isn’t even in this country, right?”

“She’s in the Free Marches, we think,” said Malcolm. “Possibly with the Dalish.”

“Now, if the Divine knew that, then she might call an Exalted March on the Dalish,” Alistair said. “That is... troubling. But I don’t see how the templars could figure that out, given that the only ones who could have known are dead or most likely dead.” He frowned. “For her sake, I hope she’s dead.”

“Why would you wish that?” asked Fergus. At the sudden disgusted, sorrowful looks on the two Wardens’ faces, the teyrn amended, “Nevermind. I’ll take your word for it.”

The three men sat in an sudden, uncomfortable silence.

“I want to go with you to Drake’s Fall,” Alistair said to Malcolm.

“What? No, you can’t,” Malcolm immediately replied, nearly jumping from his seat. While he’d love for his brother to accompany them, to have him at his side once again for old times’ sake, it wouldn’t do. Alistair was a king now. It would be too dangerous.

The king drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “But, I really want to go.”

“No,” Eamon said, with finality. “Absolutely not.”

“I am the king, you know. I could just order you to be quiet and let me do as I please.”

The arl studied Alistair for second, and then said, “Were you to do that, I would resign.”

Malcolm almost dared Alistair to do it right then. But he kept his mouth shut, because, like it or not, it was the reasonable, mature thing to do. 

Alistair sighed and sat back in his chair again. “Eamon, I’m not just a king. I’m also a Grey Warden. I’m already tainted. What’s the worse that could happen?”

Eamon looked at Malcolm then Alistair. “You could both die, that’s what, and that would plunge this country into a civil war that it can ill afford.”

“I... I could appoint another heir, in the case that both Malcolm and I die at the same time.” He motioned toward Fergus. “Here, I can make Fergus the heir in the event that Malcolm and I both die. Problem solved.”

Fergus pushed his chair away from the table. “Oh no you don’t,” he said. “I’m already a teyrn and that’s quite enough for me. You can keep your sodding crown all to yourself. And,  preferably, you can stay alive for a long time. That would be even better.”

The king scowled at him, but Fergus remained unaffected, having grown inured to Theirin anger thanks to Malcolm having been raised in his family. Another awkward quiet descended until Alistair broke it with, “Fine. I won’t push the issue.”

“Thank you, your Majesty,” said Eamon.

Alistair shot him a look telling the arl he knew exactly why he’d chosen that moment to mention the ‘majesty’ bit. Malcolm, wanting to escape from the disquiet, got to his feet. Yet Eamon wasn’t so inclined to allow the escape from conflict. “So, am I to understand that Líadan is staying in the family quarters? Yours, specifically?” he asked Malcolm.

Malcolm desperately fought the urge to give the arl some sort of scandalous reply about two Dalish elves staying in his rooms, but managed to keep the glibness to himself. That, and if a comment like that—even if patently untrue and meant in jest—got back to either woman in question, they would cooperate for once and kill him. It didn’t matter, anyway, as Fergus stepped in and said to Eamon, “She is staying in guest quarters that are near the family quarters, the same as Velanna. As for what you’re really addressing, Eamon, I want you to leave it alone. I will not have you berating a guest within my halls, no matter what the reason. Understood?” 

The arl narrowed his eyes at Fergus, and then grudgingly nodded. “Yes. You have made yourself quite clear, Teyrn Cousland.” He stood up and straightened his tunic. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” Then he left the room, wrapped in an air of indignance.

Malcolm felt like cheering. “Thank the Maker for you, Fergus.”

“He’ll be grumpy about this for ages, though,” the teyrn replied with a weary sigh.

But it did mean that the rest of the evening went without any confrontations. Eamon kept quiet, though the glares didn’t stop. Malcolm ignored them, as did Líadan. However, Malcolm felt his own unrest, as he wanted to ask her about her thoughts on what Morrigan was looking for, but didn’t exactly want to bring up the subject of Morrigan, not exactly. She needed to be discussed, of course, but it wasn’t what he wanted to talk about. He wanted to discuss _them_. Except he knew Fergus was right and he needed to figure out his answer to his brother’s question before he honestly contemplated anything more between him and Líadan. So he left both subjects alone for the night, opting for a restless sleep.

Dawn found him at the bluffs over the Waking Sea, studying the mist blanketing the ocean. The cliffs formed one part of the castle’s defenses and used to be his favorite spot out of all of Highever’s holdings. Except now they were too similar to another set of cliffs, that memory superseding all the childhood memories he had of these cliffs. As he stared at the ocean, he felt eyes on him, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He wasn’t alone.

He spun and looked around. Directly behind him, at the top of the ten-feet high wall, sat a crow. Golden eyes stared at him, unblinking, almost boring into his soul. He stared back for a moment, wondering if the familiarity of the eyes was a trick of his mind. After a minute, he shouted at the bird, wanting it to go away. It couldn’t be Morrigan, as this far into the pregnancy, he highly doubted she could shapeshift at all, much less into a small creature such as a crow. So it was his mind messing with him yet again and he didn’t feel like dealing with it, and certainly didn’t appreciate this crow going along with it. He shouted at it again and all it did was blink, mocking him. Now highly annoyed, he cast about his feet and came up with a sizable rock. Then he heaved it at the bird, his aim true. The crow took to the air at the last second. It flapped over Malcolm’s head, squawked once in outrage, and then flew away. 


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34**

“No matter their power, their triumphs,

The mage-lords of Tevinter were men

And doomed to die.

Then a voice whispered within their hearts,

Shall you surrender your power

To time like the beasts of the fields?

You are the Lords of the earth!

Go forth and claim the empty throne

of Heaven and be gods.”

— _Canticle of Threnodies 8:13_

**Astrid**

Astrid squinted up at the sky, watching as a crow passed in front of raincloud, a black speck in a dark, grey field above Val Royeaux. The late autumn gloom reminded Astrid of home, the roll of steel grey clouds across the sky heralding the coming snow. Here, in this Orlesian city, it was too temperate, and the clouds always yielded a soft rain, and not a proper, hard-driven snow. She had thought the city that held the heart of the Chantry would be better than this, that it would be reserved and religious and not so... decadent. She missed home. And so as the crow tracked north, Astrid found herself watching it with guarded jealousy until it flew beyond her sight.

The templars at least met with her exacting approval, as they were appropriately serious and staunch defenders of the faith. The citizens of the city, though, these Orlesians, they were not so serious. Interacting with their opulent ways made her feel strangely dirty and she kept to the Divine’s compound as much as she could. Besides that, she wanted to see every templar party that reported back, to read every message she could about the hunt for Morrigan. Thus far, she had been as disappointed in the hunt’s results as she had with the city of Val Royeaux. 

For the templars had turned up nothing. 

Another group had reported in from Ferelden this morning, the party commanded by the Knight-Commander of Val Royeaux itself, Thierry. After one last look toward where the crow had gone, Astrid let loose a long breath, turned, and strode up the steps into the Grand Cathedral. Knight-Commander Thierry was due to deliver his report to the Divine and Astrid was determined that she would be there to hear it. When the Grey Warden entered the Divine’s meeting room, she found Thierry and the five templars he’d taken with him into Ferelden standing uncomfortably in the middle of the room. The Divine had yet to make her appearance, and the templars remained unsure of exactly how to act, their postures a strange mixture of at-ease and attention, mimicking both and resembling neither. Thierry recognized Astrid and gave her a respectful nod as she walked in. The Warden wanted to immediately ask the Knight-Commander what he’d found—and demand to know where the wayward Fereldan prince was—but did not, knowing it was the Divine’s privilege to ask, and not hers. 

Apparently, Astrid and the Divine thought much alike. Barely had Regula entered the chamber when she noted the lack of a certain Ferelden prince and practically squawked, “Where is he?” Given the Divine’s more rotund nature and the sleek black and white of her robes, Astrid was strongly reminded of flightless birds she’d once seen near the Sundered Sea. Penguins, if she remembered correctly. Silly little birds. Then Astrid mentally smacked herself at thinking anything like that to do with the Divine, even as she fought the ridiculous urge to giggle. Obviously, this place was getting to her, and the sooner she could depart, the better. Yet, once she could take her leave this place, she had no idea where she would go. The Wardens would take her back, though they wouldn’t exactly welcome her back. While her appointment as Second Warden hadn’t been unwelcome, she could live without it, just as long as she could remain with the Wardens in some useful manner. Were she honest with herself, she knew there was no question of where she could go once she left Orlais. She would go to the Anderfels, to Weisshaupt Fortress, to home. 

The five junior templars, now at rigid attention, exchanged awkward sidelong glances, while Thierry’s gauntleted hand drifted toward the collar of his armor, as if to loosen it. “He is... still in Ferelden, Your Perfection. I am sorry, but we were not able to retrieve him. They—”

“Why not?”

Thierry swallowed several times in rapid succession. “I wanted to avoid bloodshed, Most Holy. The Fereldan Grey Wardens were present at the meeting and were not amendable to us taking Prince Malcolm with us when he refused to answer our questions.” He glanced over at Astrid. “You knew he would not answer, yes?”

“I suspected as much,” Astrid replied. In fact, she had pretty much told Regula that Malcolm wouldn’t cooperate or answer any questions if at all possible. Astrid knew that the boy wouldn’t answer not just to be difficult, but because he actually did believe that templars would be in mortal danger should he give them any information about Morrigan that could bring the Chantry’s defenders close to the maleficar. His heart, Astrid believed, was in the right place. He was, in her opinion, a decent young man, if a bit misguided. But if the tales of Morrigan’s beauty held any truth, it was hard to entirely blame the boy for falling in love with the witch. And though he’d not killed the maleficar after she had presented him with her ritual, he _had_ refused it, and Astrid felt she had to give him credit for that much. But now the young man was blocking the Chantry’s pursuit of a dangerous maleficar, and sacrifices might have to be made to ensure that Morrigan was caught and... dealt with, whatever that might end up being.

Thierry nodded. “Your suspicions were correct, Warden.” He sighed and returned his gaze to the Divine. “Your Perfection, the Fereldan King was present as well. He supported the Wardens and his brother in their refusal to answer our questions or allow Prince Malcolm to return here with us.”

“Nevermind the king for now, Thierry. You said there was danger of bloodshed?” said Regula, her dark eyes narrowing in thought. “They bared their blades toward the Chantry’s servants? On you, Knight-Commander? Did they touch you?”

The templar unconsciously rubbed at his neck and it told Astrid exactly what had happened. “Who threatened you with their blade, Knight-Commander?” she asked.

Thierry looked nervously from Astrid to the Divine. Regula sighed. “Answer the question.”

“All of them, in truth,” Thierry said. “Everyone in the room had their blades drawn.”

“Who specifically touched their blade to your neck?” Astrid asked. For some reason, it seemed that Thierry, though frustrated by the boy’s lack of cooperation, was almost protective. She wondered if the man was in fact Fereldan or had Fereldan ancestry and felt some sort of loyalty to the Fereldan royal family. Had it been the young prince who had threatened the templar? While she knew the boy had a temper, he seemed a bit more reasonable a young man than to directly threaten a templar.

“It was a young elf,” said Thierry. “Dalish, I think, judging by the tattoos on her face.”

Astrid held in a laugh. Líadan, then. What a little spitfire, that one, far more attached to the Theirin boy than she should be, and entirely unwilling to admit it. Her loyalty to Malcolm aside, the girl had the makings of a good Warden. But that was the difficulty here—the Fereldan Wardens had entirely too much loyalty to Ferelden and its royal family and not enough for the Grey Wardens in general, at least in her opinion. Georg disagreed with her, but then again, he always did. But he was Nevarran and more prone to flights of fancy than a more practical Anders, so it was understandable, if somewhat irritating.

The corners of Regula’s small mouth turned downward into a frown. “Dalish elf. That must have been the one who fought with the prince and the king during the Blight, yes? What was her name?” She looked to Astrid for the answer.

“Líadan Mahariel, Your Perfection,” the Warden replied. 

Regula made a disapproving noise and slowly shook her head. “Those Dalish, they’ll never learn, will they? Even after the Exalted March and the defeat of their civilization, they still flaunt the Chantry’s rules and even threaten her servants. She is a mage, is she not?”

Astrid hesitated, weighing the consequences of her answer. Líadan was a Warden and very peripheral to the situation of catching Morrigan. Confirming Líadan’s status as a mage with an angered Divine could lead to Chantry interference in Warden matters. While they needed to find Morrigan, Astrid understood the need for the Chantry to stay out of Warden affairs, especially when it came to their mages. If one Grey Warden mage was ever deemed apostate and allowed to be brought in and regulated by the templars, soon it would be the same for every Warden mage. Though mages were not Astrid’s favorite people—how could they be to a devout Andrastian, as their kind had caused the First Blight?—she did understand the need for them. Especially against the darkspawn, a kind who followed no rules at all. Astrid could see where the Divine was heading with this, and it wasn’t a good place for the Wardens.

Thierry saved her from having to answer at all, though, but jumping in himself. “She is indeed a mage, Most Holy. I found it curious she threatened me with a blade instead of magic.”

And here Astrid had assumed Thierry to be an intelligent man and not a stereotypical, dull-witted templar. Of course Líadan hadn’t threatened a _templar_ with magic, as it would be pointless. The elf was headstrong and temperamental, not stupid.

“She could be a maleficar,” said Regula.

“Líadan?” Astrid said, her surprise at the allegation causing her to speak out of turn.

The Divine’s glare made the Warden wince reflexively. “You have something to say, Warden?”

“While Warden Líadan is young and foolhardy, Most Holy, I honestly do not think she is a blood mage.” Astrid hadn’t thought the Divine would go so far as to attempt to name a Warden a maleficar and go after them that way. That would play out even worse than Warden mages truly being named apostates needing regulation from the Chantry. The templars could purge the Order of mages entirely, if they so cared, naming them all maleficarum, and thereby crippling the Order in their fight against the darkspawn. But she had to offer the Divine something or she wouldn’t give up on this line of thought. Something that wouldn’t put the Order in danger and would help in catching Morrigan. Something that would force Malcolm’s hand, perhaps, or give the Chantry the upper hand when dealing with him. 

“No? She did threaten a templar,” Regula said.

Thierry’s armor clanked as he shifted his weight. “To be fair, Your Perfection, everyone in that room threatened us, from this Líadan to the King himself. In fact, the only person who did not threaten us was Prince Malcolm.”

“That’s because his pet Dalish elf did the threatening for him,” another of the templars muttered.

Admittedly, part of Astrid wished the templar had said that in front of Líadan, just so she could see what the Dalish elf would’ve done to him in return. That girl was no one’s pet, not by any means. It surprised Astrid that the young templar had been so curiously blind to the true machinations going on within the Fereldan group. Had the man no concept of loyalty? How the templar could not see the devotion that the Fereldan prince inspired in others was beyond her. And from what she’d heard, the Fereldan king was much the same as his younger brother. Perhaps this Orlesian templar just had no idea what true nobility was, being from Orlais. Pity.

The Knight-Commander fired a glare at the younger templar, who blanched.

But Regula had caught the comment. “What was that, Ser Templar?” When the templar glanced at Thierry, as if looking for permission to speak, the Divine clucked her tongue. “Your Divine has told you to speak, Ser Templar, so you do not need your Knight-Commander’s permission, as I happen to outrank him.”

“There are rumors in Ferelden and even here in Orlais, Your Perfection,” the young templar, possibly even younger than the prince they were after, said. “About Prince Malcolm and the Dalish elf. And, well, after seeing how quickly she threatened Knight-Commander Thierry in his defense, I believe the rumors might be true.”

If an innocent, sheltered templar could see something between the two of them, Astrid realized, then they were in it far deeper than the two young people thought. She fought a brief twinge of amusement at the plight of the young man and woman. Interesting, that the boy would fall for an elven mage. Like father, like son, she supposed.

She blinked. That was it. Fiona was the boy’s mother and no one knew except for a select few. She couldn’t let it slip that Fiona was an elf or that Alistair was Malcolm’s full-blooded brother instead of half, as that would destabilize Ferelden. The Wardens could ill afford that during a Thaw, especially when the Order was reestablishing itself in the country. But, the boy’s mother was a mage, and since the public thought Malcolm and Alistair were half-brothers, mentioning that fact wouldn’t threaten Ferelden, as it wouldn’t call Alistair into question. Revealing that Malcolm’s mother had been a mage—without divulging that Fiona, an elf, was his mother—could give them the leverage they needed to make the young man cooperate.

“If those rumors are true, we can at least be grateful that the boy has moved on from the thrall of a maleficar,” said Regula. “Well, if Líadan turns out not to be one, as Astrid insists.”

“She is not a maleficar,” Astrid said, and then took a deep breath. “I do, however, have some information about Prince Malcolm that could be of some use to you.”

Regula fixed her beady-eyed look on the Warden. “What sort of information? And why didn’t you tell us sooner? I do not like things being kept from me, Astrid.”

She ducked her head in apology. “I am sorry, Most Holy. I did not think it important at the time, as I had no suspicions. Now I realize I could have been wrong. You see, I heard that Prince Malcolm’s mother was a mage. Maybe the prince did not want to accompany the templars because—”

“Because he has hidden his magical abilities all this time,” Regula finished, catching on quickly. “Yes. If his mother was indeed a mage then he could very well be an apostate, and a very well-hidden, accomplished one at that. Unharrowed and a danger.” She nodded to herself. “This possibility must be investigated as soon as possible. Imagine, a mage being the heir to the Fereldan throne? Ghastly and heretical.” She spun on her heel and faced Thierry. “Knight-Commander, I want you to take your men and your leave of Val Royeaux as soon as you are ready. You are charged with bringing this apostate, Malcolm Theirin, to the Chantry for investigation.”

Thierry bowed deeply. “Yes, Your Perfection. At once.”

As Astrid watched the six templars march from the room, she hoped she had made the right choice in sacrificing Malcolm to the Chantry. If this ploy didn’t work, it would be a waste of a promising young Warden. The Divine dismissed her and Astrid left the Cathedral with a heavy heart, not bothering to shield her head from the gentle curtain of rain falling from the sky.

**Vespasian**

The Archon Vespasian paced the length of his study, perched on the top floor of the tallest tower in Minrathous. His tower, however, was no small turret or spire that capped off a castle’s higher reaches. The archon’s tower was a fortress in of itself, strong and opulent, forever lording over the denizens of Tevinter as well as any Magister lord should. It was the full shout of its echo that was the ancient, dilapidated Kinloch Hold in barbaric Ferelden. Tall, arched open windows lanced through half of the circular room, bathing the study in a bright mid-afternoon light. The ceilings inside soared, rivaled only by the sky outside, the rooms cavernous and capable of holding hundreds, both in width, breadth, and height. For now, this particular room held only one man—Vespasian. His silk slippers shushed quietly against the heavy carpets, his black robes with red and silver piping spun around his body whenever he turned, and the latest message from the Fereldan front crackled as he crumpled it in the hand held behind his back. 

No trace. Every message came back the same. His scouts had found no trace of this witch Morrigan, save the vapors of rumors and gossip. He risked war should the new, young Fereldan king catch wind of his true intentions and connect each scouting party to the other. War was certainly on the horizon, and though he was already mustering his troops and pulling away from the qunari front, Vespasian did not want to risk a premature war. Nor did he want an unnecessary one, as if this Morrigan did not turn out to be real, he had no intention of wasting his troops on conquering the cold wilds of Ferelden. His ancestors had gotten out of that cesspool of a backwater too late and suffered needless, embarrassing losses. Vespasian had no intentions of doing the same. He would conquer and stay, or not bother at all. It depended on where this Morrigan was and what she had to offer. If she truly carried one of the Old Gods and was indeed in Ferelden, and he discovered the truth of this within the next minute, he would immediately summon his troops to war.

But the truth had yet to be revealed. And so, he was annoyed. He’d risked the anger of the Grey Wardens over in Weisshaupt Fortress with his execution of the traitor and heretic Marius. Though they remained in the dark—for the most part, as Vespasian had no illusions that the Wardens did not suspect at what had happened to their missing brother—they would not remain quiet for long. Soon enough, more Wardens would come visiting, asking questions and causing trouble. And his scouts had brought word that the White Divine had sent out her templars, _all_ of her templars, to find the maleficar Morrigan. The archon also suspected that the Grey Wardens searched for Morrigan and Marius being in Minrathous had been a ploy of distraction. After all, how could they not search for her? One of their own had given Morrigan the chance to bear a child with an Old God’s soul. They would seek to correct their dead, wayward brother’s mistake as quickly and efficiently as possible. 

Vespasian found it hilarious that the Wardens gave this Zevran a place of honor as the slayer of an archdemon when, in truth, Zevran had given the Old God a new life. And they said the Anders had no sense of humor. Such wonderful lies.

A crow cawed from the window, and Vespasian turned to observe the dark-feathered bird gracefully fly into the room to perch on his desk. The bird studied him for a moment, its golden eyes unblinking, before hopping to the floor and shifting into the form of an old crone. Yet those same ancient, golden eyes peered out from under a nest of dirty, greying hair. This was the woman who had told Vespasian of the Old God child. This was the woman responsible for Vespasian’s precarious positions in worldly matters. “What have you found?” he asked her, his irritation making his normally smooth voice harsh.

“What I needed,” the crone replied, and then laughed. Oh, how the Archon hated that laugh, its giddy madness setting his teeth on edge.

“How dare you laugh!” Vespasian shouted, throwing the balled-up paper at the woman. It bounced harmlessly off her shoulder and she didn’t give it a bit of attention. “You stand here and laugh as my troops restlessly await my command, as my scouts bring word of nothing and no one and _no sign_ of this Morrigan. I begin to think this all a game of yours, Ethliel, that Morrigan is not your daughter, and instead is nothing but a story conjured up by you for your amusement. Perhaps you are not as you claim, that you are no god, but a merely another powerful mage seeking ever more power over the rest of us mere mortals like that whore Andraste.”

Anger snapped and spun within the crone’s golden eyes, darkening the irises into a liquid amber. “How dare you question me, Archon,” she said, the calm in her scratchy voice belying the temper flashing in her eyes. “Would you rather return to worshipping that weak Maker of the Chantry and his pretender god of a mortal bride Andraste?”

Vespasian worked to form an answer, thus far unmoved by the crone’s anger. He tasted bitter disgust in his mouth at the idea of returning to the worship of the Maker, a god so weak that he had to trick other gods into prisons so that mortals had no choice but to worship only Him. As Vespasian considered his reply, the crone laughed in delight in contrast to the rage remaining in her eyes and shapeshifted again. Her form sprang out into the air, landing in the middle of the room on four massive, clawed legs. Leathery, iridescent maroon-scaled wings flapped and curved forward, long, sharp teeth crashed together in an elongated snout. A roar resounded through the chamber that served as Vespasian’s study and spirit fire singed the tasseled edges of the carpets. And then there were the eyes, always the eyes, golden and glittering and watching. 

And angry.

The archon dropped to his knees, the memory of why he did as this woman asked him charging back into his head. This was Ethliel, this was an Ancient One, the Mother of the Seven, the god once known for peace, as she had told him before she showed him her true form for the first time. Yet peace was not to be found in this god’s countenance as only an intemperate rage burned within those golden eyes of hers. At the moment, this rage focused on the forgetful archon on his knees before the high dragon, head quickly bowing to touch the floor in worship. “No! I do not wish to worship the Maker! He is nothing under the eyes of Ethliel!”

The air snapped and there was another laugh, a dragon’s laugh, and it shifted into a woman’s laugh, but not one from a crone. Instead, Ethliel had shifted into her other human form, the one that Vespasian much preferred. While the woman was still old, she was no hag, no crone. She was beautiful and elegant once again. Her pure white hair was swept back from her face in waves tipped with blood red threading. A silverite band held it back at the top of her forehead, the same band curving down to frame the striking planes of her face, ending in short, pointed curves just above her high cheekbones. Her robe’s high collar hugged at the top of her neck and dark, iridescent feathers covered each shoulder. Above all, she radiated power, almost as if she was power made tangible. Vespasian revered this form nearly as much as he did the high dragon that had just roared at him. The woman’s laughter trailed off into a chuckle and then into a tiny smile and nod of approval. “Good. Because the Maker’s time is short, Vespasian, while mine is eternal. Have patience. All will come to be as it must. There is no other way.”

Vespasian slowly rose to his feet, wondering yet again why this woman so hated the Chantry’s Maker. If she was so powerful, how could a weak god bother her? Or even come to her notice? The Maker should be beneath her, yet instead, He incensed her. Struck by a moment of courage and stupidity, he asked, “Why do you hate the Maker?”

A wicked smile, a knowing smile, played on Ethliel’s lips. “Why do you not?” She turned, the feathers on her shoulders shining dully in the light from the windows. Her hands raised, palms up, the universal expression of unknowing. “Why do we do anything?”

Another non-answer, something this particular god specialized in, Vespasian had discovered. He schooled his face into a neutral expression so as not to reveal his displeasure at the lack of answer.

But Ethliel noticed and smirked. Then her hands slowly drifted back to her sides and the smirk disappeared. The triumphant light in her eyes changed, gathering in golden sorrow. “Ah, but you are not a mother, Archon. Were I to explain, you would not understand.”

Vespasian resisted the urge to inform the god that it was biologically impossible for him to be a mother. However, he was a father. There had to be some worth in that to help in understanding. Yet, something in her eyes told him not to mention it. A warning, perhaps. One he could have used earlier, of course, when he had dared lose his temper in the face of a powerful, ancient god. But he could go back to the matter at hand and try to gather more information, this time in a polite, measured manner. “Do you know where Morrigan is?”

The woman scowled, yet at the same time, looked somehow pleased. “No. That foolish child of mine has proven nearly as intelligent and resourceful as a god’s child should be. But I know her weakness.” Ethliel strode over to one of the windows, her long fingers resting against the sill as she peered out and viewed all of Minrathous. “And I know where her weakness dwells.”

“What weakness? Tell me, so that we may strike.”

Ethliel turned to regard the archon, folding her arms across her chest. “We must wait. The child must be born before we can safely strike at our foe. We cannot take the child from her while it still grows, Archon. You are well familiar with the workings of how mortal, human life comes to be on this world. Even gods cannot change this fact. It is immutable, much as Thedas is.  But you would like to know my daughter’s weakness, yes? That is why you asked.”

“If she is as strong as you say, I find it hard to believe she has any weakness.” Vespasian used no titles or endearments with Ethliel—she hated them, saying titles were for the weak, such as the Maker.

The self-satisfied smirk returned, plying at Ethliel’s dark maroon lips. “Love, Vespasian. Morrigan’s weakness is love. And it will be her undoing.”

“I... I don’t understand.” Love was an emotion, just one in the myriad of emotions humans experienced in the course of a normal lifetime. It was no weakness that a foe could use to exploit in battle to any great degree that he could see. A weakness was more substantial to that, such as an inability to fend of fire spells or a gap left in an arcane shield. Love was love and nothing more, at least to Vespasian. 

“At least you are truthful, if not knowledgeable,” Ethliel replied with a sensuous chuckle. “Morrigan allowed herself, while carrying out her task, to fall in love with a human man. While this should have given her the ability to manipulate him into doing her bidding, it did not. Theirins are inexplicable men and it would do you well to remember that, Archon. This man said no to her, to the assurance of living and being the father of an Old God. Morrigan at least managed to salvage the situation by finding another man to manipulate, using his feelings of guilt and the foolish need to protect his friends against him in order to perform her ritual. Yet when she left them all before the final battle, she did so with, of all things, a broken heart. How quaint, I say. How very quaint. I thought I had taught her better, but lessons often fail in the face of the enthusiasm of youth. You see, my daughter still loves this man, though she can never have him. Yet she would not want to see him suffer or die. Were that to happen, it would draw her out, either to save him or to bring down her wrath.” Another laugh, this one rife with pride. “She has inherited my temper, and when she is wronged, she will seek to right it, as I have been doing for all these years.”

“Who?”

“I am surprised you have not figured it out already. Why, it is the younger Theirin prince, the very Grey Warden your scouts are trying to question.”

Vespasian started to understand the god’s plan. “I see. We shall wait, then, obeying the counsel of your patience.”

“I have all the time in the world,” Ethliel replied, looking out onto the city once again. “And the entirety of eternity is my playground.”

**Morrigan**

Morrigan resisted the urge to clap as Lanaya’s lithe form shifted into the black-feathered body of a crow, wings flapping as she soared upward and into the sky for her first flight. In these past months she and Lanaya had come to a mutual understanding. They had almost grown close, as Morrigan and Líadan had once been during the Blight. Almost friends, yet not quite, as Morrigan could not afford to let such attachments form between herself and another ever again. Whether friendship or love, it was a bond, and it was a weakness that was not to be tolerated. Had she another task in life, things could have been different. As it was, she did feel a slight surge of pride as her student took flight in her first fully successful transformation.

Along with the pride came a twinge of jealousy, that Lanaya had the freedom to shapeshift, while Morrigan did not. She was halfway through the pregnancy now, and to her annoyance, she was showing. It had been inevitable, she knew, but the implied weakness of a woman with child made her seethe. Yet there was naught to do for it except wait, with as much patience as she could exercise. 

As her student flew, Morrigan pondered on how she could bring up the subject of what she needed from the Dalish elves other than a safe haven. Flemeth’s grimoire had revealed far more questions than answers, and left Morrigan with a strong suspicion that her mother was no mere abomination, no human or demon, and certainly not as dead as she would like. No, most likely, her mother was some sort of god or demigod. An Old God, perhaps, what with her dragon shapeshifting abilities, or another one of the beings worshipped in the ancient times. Because the answer, she was sure, lay within the knowledge from the ancients, her first thoughts were of the ancient elves and the knowledge lost when the Tevinters buried Arlathan whole. The ancient elves had their stories of their missing, trapped gods just as the Chantry followers did. The Old Gods and the missing gods could be related, or even one in the same. What Morrigan needed to figure out was where Flemeth’s place in all of it was and what Flemeth’s true capabilities were. She could not prepare a proper defense if she did not have all the knowledge of what she was dealing with.

Her other option, of course, was escape. To flee from Thedas entirely. And as much as Morrigan wanted to kill Flemeth as soon and thoroughly as she could, she knew fleeing was the more realistic option. The child she carried would be powerful, she knew, and perhaps the key to defeating Flemeth once and for all. But to prepare the child, she would need time and safety, knowledge and power. Yet even to discover these things, she needed to be without weakness, and not with child. So she had to wait, and between reading whatever she could of this clan’s books and teaching Lanaya and any other capable apprentices how to shapeshift, she was admittedly somewhat bored.

The day before had provided some excitement with the sudden appearance of another Dalish clan. Or a third of another Dalish clan, as it were, since the new clan’s numbers were significantly dwindled. Low enough in fact that they had no mages left to them, no Keeper and no apprentices. As such, they had made a formal request to Lanaya that their clan, the Calliel, join with hers, the Ra’asiel, because otherwise they hadn’t the numbers or a leader in order to sustain themselves. Lanaya had wisely agreed to the request, as the survivors of the Calliel were strong, if somewhat emotionally battered. They were newly migrated from Ferelden, bearing a sad tale of human and Dalish treachery. One of their own had been exiled from the clan, swearing a vengeance the rest of the clan did not seek, after first her niece and then her sister had gone missing. In the end, it had been the darkspawn largely at fault, and not the humans, and the exile had not been allowed to return. They had left her in Ferelden, and the last the Calliel had heard, the exile had been in the custody of the Grey Wardens.

When Merren had described the party he’d come across in the Wending Wood, the Wardens traveling with exile Velanna, Morrigan had barely resisted the temptation to ask questions of her own. From the descriptions, she knew that both Malcolm and Líadan had been in that party. Her love and her near-sister, two people whom she had deeply betrayed, and yet she wanted to know how they were. She shouldn’t want any contact with them, she knew, and it was foolish of her to even want to inquire about their well being. And yet she still wondered. Did they look haggard or healthy? Happy or sad? Silly, stupid things. Had he begun to live? Had he let her go or did he cling too tightly to what simply could no longer be? She had done what she could before she had left him, before she had betrayed them both, to make sure they had one another. But they were stubborn, she knew, and both felt deeply. And even though she had done horrible things to them both, they would most likely refuse to allow anything to happen between them out of guilt for something they felt owed to her regarding Malcolm.

Fools, all of them. Including herself. She needed to let go of the memory and find solace in the fact that the ritual had worked, and because of that, Flemeth would eventually meet her downfall, and she would no longer be a threat to Morrigan or to anyone else. Morrigan jumped the slightest bit, startled at realizing that she no longer cared only for her own survival, or just the child’s. Her caring extended now to other futures—Malcolm’s, Líadan’s, Alistair’s, in a way, and even Ferelden and more. Foolish, once again, and yet... she found a strength in it. That what she’d done, and what she must do, wouldn’t be a sacrifice made in vain. That her actions would mean something beyond simply assuring that her soul continued to live and breathe in her own body. And if it turned out that way, perhaps the sacrifices wouldn’t hurt quite so much.

“You have that look about you, Morrigan.”

The witch glanced up, astonished that she had allowed herself to be caught by surprise by Lanaya. Somehow, the young Keeper had returned to the ground and shifted back into her elven form without Morrigan noticing. “To what look are you referring? I have no look and certainly no look that could be considered ‘that’ look.”

Lanaya laughed, not unkindly, as she moved to sit cross-legged across from Morrigan. “Oh, but you do. I see you with that look and I wonder what you’re remembering, who you’re remembering, to have a look such as that.” Her light eyes dropped toward the plainly showing unborn child Morrigan carried. “Is it—”

“No.” Morrigan made certain she cut off that sort of assumption. “No, ‘tis not. This child was not created out of love, so thoughts of the child’s father would not result in whatever ‘look’ to which you refer.”

“What was it created out of, then?” Lanaya asked, without rancor, only curiosity.

“Necessity,” Morrigan answered. “It carries a... very ancient soul and will be powerful. It will be instrumental in the future of this world, of that much I am certain. Beyond that, I can see nothing, nor would I even dare to guess.”

The young elf offered her a warm smile. “I see more than you do, it seems.” She tilted her head to the side. “You are not a natural healer, are you? I know you can heal, but you had to work at it to grasp it, yes? Unlike your other abilities?”

“Yes, but I fail to see what discussing my shortcomings has to do with anything,” Morrigan snapped. She didn’t appreciate other weaknesses being brought up while she suffered the indignity of enough as it was. And Lanaya knew this about her and persisted anyway. Perhaps their understanding was not what Morrigan had thought.

“ _Abelas,_ I apologize if you took offense, for that wasn’t how I meant it.” Though Lanaya made an apology, the warm smile did not leave her face. “As a healer and a keeper, I can see more. I had told you before, but you didn’t believe me, nor did you see. I had thought you would by now, but I think I understand, knowing that your healing skills were gained through hard study.”

She fixed a glare on Lanaya. “You are speaking in riddles and I do not like it, elf.”

The keeper smothered a laugh behind her hand. 

Morrigan sniffed in irritation and began to get up. 

Lanaya reached out and placed a hand on her arm, urging her to sit back down, finally looking properly apologetic. “Again, _abelas_ , Morrigan,” she said. “Let me take your hand and teach you, and I will show you what I mean.” 

After letting go of a little irritation, Morrigan allowed the other woman to carefully take her hand. Lanaya brought forth a flare of healing magic around her hand that enveloped Morrigan’s as well, and then swept it over Morrigan’s expanding abdomen. The witch gasped.

“ _Ma inan_? You see?” Lanaya said. “You always speak of one, but there are two. Brothers.”

Even in her shock, Morrigan cursed her foolishness yet again. There were two where there was supposed to be one. Her weakness had never been purged. It remained within her, foolhardy and stubborn. She knew that she could end this extraneous life if she wished, but she did not wish to. For she knew, without a doubt, that the child had been conceived prior to the ritual she had done with Zevran. The part required from her that the ritual drew out could only number in one. The other had to be there before, but not much before, perhaps a week or less. So young and new that she wouldn’t have known. She had no wish to end the life of something created not through duty, not through what had to be done, but through love. Somehow, even with the invasion of the Old God’s soul into her womb to possess the other child, this extra one had clung to its nigh-impossible life. Perhaps it meant something. Perhaps it was destined for something nearly as great as its Old God brother.  “Tell no one,” she said out loud. “Please.”

Lanaya nodded solemnly. “I will keep this to myself until these two present themselves, but on one condition.”

“Name it.” Morrigan’s voice came out more sharply than she wished, but the surge of protectiveness she felt couldn’t be stopped.

“I want you to answer one question for me entirely in truth.”

Relief washed through the witch, her heart rate slowing, tension ebbing from her body, knowing she would not have to flee so soon after all. She could deal with a question. “Ask and I will answer.”

“This other child... is this child’s father the prince you were with during the Blight?”

Bound by her agreement, Morrigan answered, “Yes.” Then she looked away, angry at her eyes and their rebellion and their sudden tears. She would bear this child with its Old God half-brother, one child of duty and another of love. And then duty would resume and there would be more sacrifices she would have to make. When it came time to leave Thedas, to retreat to safety with the Old God child in order to prepare for what was to come, she would have to leave this second child behind. And before the sacrifice had even been made, it hurt.

“You know that the clan has taken to calling the child they know about Cuán, yes?”

“I had heard mentions of it. What does it mean?”

Lanaya smiled again. “Little wolf, because you came into the camp as a wolf when you first appeared. They felt it appropriate your child be a little wolf. And I realize that I saw correctly, back when we first made our deal, when I first told you and you didn’t believe me. You have the little wolf in there, but you also have the wolf-king, Conrí.”

Morrigan laughed. “His father is not the fool king. His father is merely the fool king’s brother, with no aspirations to any throne.”

“The father may not be a king, but his son will be.” The smile faded and Lanaya gave Morrigan a heavy look. “He is as important as his brother to the future of this world. You will always protect Cuán, Morrigan, and the Dalish will always protect Conrí. This much I see.”


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35**

“Even the mountains had a heart, once. When the world was young, Korth the Mountain-Father kept his throne at the peak of Belenas, the mountain that lies at the center of the world, from which he could see all the corners of the earth and sky. And he saw strong men become weak, brave men grow cowardly, and wise men turn foolish for love.

Korth devised a plan that he might never be betrayed by his own heart, by taking it out and hiding it where no soul would ever dare search for it. He sealed it inside a golden cask, buried it in the earth, and raised around it the fiercest mountains the world had ever seen, the Frostbacks, to guard it.

But without his heart, the Mountain-Father grew cruel. His chest was filled with bitter mountain winds that shrieked and howled like lost souls. Food lost its flavor, music had no sweetness, and he lost all joy in deeds of valor. He sent avalanches and earthquakes to torment the tribes of men. Gods and men rose against him, calling him a tyrant, but with no heart, Korth could not be slain. Soon there would be no heroes left, either among men or gods, who would dare challenge Korth.

The Lady of the Skies sent the best of her children—the swiftest, the cleverest, and the strongest fliers—to scour the mountains for the missing heart, and for a year and a day they searched. But sparrow and raven, vulture and eagle, swift and albatross returned to her with nothing.”

—from _The Ptarmigan: An Avvar Tale_

**Malcolm**

They took the coastal route instead of the North Road, opting for a bit of extra travel so that they could keep an eye on the weather. With the autumn waning so quickly into winter and its accompanying tempest of storms off the Waking Sea, they needed as much warning as possible. Thus far, the weather held, with no banks of steely grey clouds heavy with snow looming over the ocean as of yet. Even the chill was bearable, at least when the wind wasn’t blowing straight into the mixed party of Grey Wardens and the six Highever guards who rode behind them. Once they reached the base of the mountains that comprised Drake’s Fall, the soldiers would set up camp with the horses and extra supplies and remain there while the Wardens ascended. 

Emotionally, Malcolm would have preferred to take the inland route, as each gust of wind laced with the scent of the sea reminded him of either Morrigan or his childhood. But reason had prevailed and he locked away his memories as best he could, and tried not to inhale when the wind picked up. The scenery was as lovely as he remembered, though, sheer cliffs dropping into a savage sea with snow-capped mountains rising in the distance. In the spring and summer, the forested lands would’ve been a mass of green, and in the early fall, a riot of color would’ve greeted them. But this late into the season, they were welcomed by wooden skeletons adorned with the last few tired leaves that had yet to drop and join their brethren on the ground. 

“So, I saw your little fight with that bird yesterday,” Líadan said as she rode next to him.

Malcolm groaned inwardly. He’d hoped no one had witnessed that little mishap. A grown man throwing rocks at a bird because he thought it was a shapeshifter in disguise. It was really not something that should be seen by anyone, even himself. He narrowed his eyes and glanced over at her. “Were you spying on me?”

She shifted in her saddle, keeping her eyes on the path ahead of them instead of meeting his look. “Of course not! I was merely... looking... for you. And I found you.”

“And what? Watched? You could’ve said something, you know.”

A smirk appeared on her lips and she looked at him. “You were shouting at a bird, of course I was going to watch. And listen. It was hysterical. Did you think it was Morrigan or something? Was that it?”

He quickly looked away. “No. Of course not. That would be silly.”

Líadan snorted. “If you say so.”

“And if you were looking for me, why didn’t you get me after, then? You know, once the bird had flown off and the entertainment was over.” His look back towards her was slow and deliberate and somewhat accusatory.

“Oh, I don’t know, because you stormed off in a snit straight after and I was too busy laughing to chase after you?”

Right. He’d walked right into that one, he had to grant her that. He gave in and sighed. “Fine. You win. I acted like a child. So why were you looking for me in the first place?”

The mirth faded from her eyes. “I wanted to talk to you about Morrigan.”

It was his turn to shift uncomfortably in his saddle, wondering if Líadan wanted to speak about how they could find Morrigan or to talk about the _other_ Morrigan subject, the one that kept them apart better than Arl Eamon ever could. “Really?” Nervousness brought out a stilted laugh. “I mean, had that crow actually been Morrigan, we could’ve just had a chat with her right then. Well, if I hadn’t thrown a rock and you hadn’t been busy laughing your ass off and if the crow had really been her.”

“Is that so? You mean if that crow had shifted into Morrigan and it had been her standing there instead of that bird, you would’ve been able to carry on a normal, civil conversation?”

He pondered the possibility for a moment, allowing the image he’d seen often enough during the Blight of Morrigan transforming from a bird to a human to play through his head. Imagined her standing there in front of him at the top of that bluff, really there, really listening, and not running away. Golden eyes intent on his soul, waiting for him to speak. What would he even ask? There was what he’d told Fiona. _If_. But it was too vague, too open-ended, and Morrigan would surely find a way out of answering that one. The direct questions, though, they were risky, both in asking and in hearing the answer. _Do you love me?_ The concept of Morrigan answering that question truthfully was so foreign to him that he couldn’t grasp the possibility. He wasn’t even sure if he could muster the courage to ask the question in the first place or if he was brave enough to hear the answer. Nor did he know what he wanted the answer to be, if asked and given in truth.

“Malcolm?” Líadan said, concern in her voice.

He looked over at her, banishing the haunting specter of Morrigan from his mind. “I don’t know what I’d do,” he finally answered. “Maybe faint dead away. Maybe shout a lot. Maybe just stare with my jaw on the ground. There’s no telling. Besides, I don’t think it would be that easy.”

Líadan’s small smile was an unspoken apology for dredging up the darker emotions stemming from Morrigan. “No. She doesn’t want to be found, as we both know, so it isn’t like she’s just going to pay a random visit for a nice little chat. Though it would save us an awful lot of trouble if she did.” The elf took a breath and her eyes moved to look beyond Malcolm and at the Waking Sea. “I wanted to talk more about what Morrigan is after.”

He held in a sigh of relief. Good, she wanted to talk about the easy subject. Well, easy when compared to the other possibility. When paired with something as easy to talk about such as puppies or kittens, it would be far outmatched in ease, but he’d take what he could get at this point. “You mean the ancient knowledge from before the Tevinter Imperium?”

“Yes. I figured it would’ve been a good time to talk, since we were off the ship and in a fairly secure area.” She checked on the Highever guards riding behind the cluster of Wardens. Nathaniel had ridden ahead to scout and Velanna had gone with him. Anders and Oghren rode behind Malcolm and Líadan but were deep in their own banter, something that Malcolm had long ago stopped paying attention to if he could help it. “I suppose now would be okay, too.”

He thumbed at the reins he held in his hand. “When you say ancient knowledge, you’re thinking the ancient elves, aren’t you?”

She nodded. “Yes. It makes sense, to me. The Tevinters learned from the elves of Arlathan, after all. And...” she trailed off for a moment, a shadow of memory passing through her eyes. “I remembered the mirror that Tamlen and I had found. You thought it looked Tevinter, right?”

Malcolm gave her a sheepish grin. “That was Alistair, actually. I didn’t really think about where it came from, just that it was this a huge nasty source of the taint that’d already made two elves sick. And that if we didn’t do something about it, it’d make a lot more people sick. I had already assumed that you would be dead by the time we got back to your clan and that Tamlen had died before we even found you outside that cave.”

Líadan opened her mouth like she was going to say something, and then shut it, brows furrowing in thought. After an uncomfortable second that felt like far longer, she asked, “You know, I wasn’t really in a highly traveled area. How did you find me?”

“In a heap,” Malcolm replied. At her instantly annoyed look, he continued more seriously, “We felt you, actually, from the Brecilian Passage. Alistair, Zevran, and I, we felt the taint. We thought it was strange, since we knew there weren’t darkspawn around, so we left the others in the Passage and went looking. That’s when we found you collapsed and barely conscious outside that cave.” He frowned. “I’m not sure that you were conscious at all, really. Your eyelids were fluttering and your eyes would move, but you were very out of it. I even tried talking to you to see if you’d respond. You didn’t, in case you were wondering. Gave me the silent treatment from the outset. Portent of the future, I suppose.”

She bit at her bottom lip as she took in his story. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

He blinked. “What? Why would you ask something like that?” Yet even as he questioned it, he realized that it made sense for her to ask it. She was a Grey Warden now and knew what their duty was when it came to people who had been tainted. He held up a hand to acknowledge his mistake. “Sorry. You caught me off guard. We didn’t kill you because you felt different. The taint that’d made you sick, I mean. It was more like the taint we would’ve felt from a Grey Warden than from a ghoul or a darkspawn. So we picked you up and brought you back for Wynne to take a look at you before we... before we decided what to do with you,” he finished in a rush, unable to say _before we killed you outright_.

“You took a chance on some random elf you stumbled on in the forest?” Her tone sounded almost angry.

Malcolm wasn’t sure how to react to it because he thought she wasn’t mad about being saved anymore. “I guess you could say it was that, sure,” he answered after hesitating. “There was an awful lot of hopelessness before that and you maybe not having to die—us not having to _kill_ you—was a pretty good motivation to hope that you’d live somehow. I’m sorry it didn’t work out the way you wanted.”

She blinked at his sudden acrimony directed at her. “I didn’t mean it that way. I just...” she trailed off and motioned at her ears. “Elf, remember? Most humans aren’t exactly caring when it comes to whether or not an elf lives or dies.”

“Really? Your’e an elf? And here I was wondering why your ears were pointy.” His attempt to disarm her with humor didn’t work and she glared at him in return. He nearly rubbed at his eyes to see if he’d somehow mistaken Líadan for another elf. “Are you channeling Velanna now? Because that’s something she’d say. The whole ‘all humans hate all elves and want them dead’ perception is way more her thing than yours.”

“I’m just trying to figure out why.”

“Because we were tired of people dying and, for once, it looked like we could save someone instead of watching them die. It didn’t sodding matter that you were an elf. We didn’t care that you were Dalish. What mattered is that you were somehow still alive and we had a chance to keep you that way. I don’t know if you noticed, but hope was a pretty rare commodity during the Blight. We kind of clung to it when we found it, cranky Dalish elf involved or not.” He tried not to sound annoyed, but didn’t succeed very well. It was hard to take a close friend—or more, given that he couldn’t figure that part out—arguing for her own death, even though the point where her life had been in danger from a ghoul-type taint had long past. When she didn’t reply, only looked determinedly ahead, he scowled. It wasn’t like the job of saving her life had been easy. Far, far from it. At times, it had felt more painful than if they’d given up on her right away and killed her outside that cave.

“What about when you conscripted me?” she asked. “What that the same hope from before?”

“I’m not sure if I would’ve called it hope at that point,” he replied, unable to keep the bitterness from his tone and not bothering to mention that it had been Alistair to conscript her, not him personally. “What are you trying to get out of me? How I felt about you being taken from your people? Here’s how I felt—it sucked. The whole thing did. It was horrible to have to rip you away from your clan and I hated every second of it. It was awful to watch you say goodbye to your entire clan knowing that you would probably never see them again. Why? Because I know exactly what it felt like because I’d gone through that entire thing only half a year before you had. Duncan physically dragged me out of Highever Castle and away from my dying parents. My sister-in-law and nephew were already dead. My father was already as good as dead. My mother? She refused to leave and insisted on staying by my father’s side even though it meant her death. At the time, I didn’t even know they weren’t my natural parents, but it doesn’t matter, not even now. They were the ones that raised me and I was dragged away from them as they lay dying. I hated it, I hated Duncan, and I hated the Wardens.”

“Yet you did the same thing to me,” she said quietly, not an accusation, but more an observation.

With the nearly year and a half of perspective, Malcolm was able to reign the temper resulting from refreshed pain and see her statement for what it was. “I’d mostly come to my senses by then,” he replied, equally as quietly. “I still had a lot of doubt, and I didn’t like what we had to do to keep you alive, but I wasn’t going to let you die. I would’ve rather had you hate me your entire life than have you die a needless death. I imagine that’s exactly the same way Duncan felt when he conscripted me and dragged me out of the castle. Better alive and furious than dead and gone.” He sighed and gave her a curious look. “I thought we had this conversation before. I _think_ it ended in you not being mad at me for that anymore.”

A rueful smile quirked her lips. “It did. I’m sorry.” Then she finally turned to face him, green eyes both puzzled and contrite. “I really don’t know where that came from. It just kind of... bubbled out. So... let’s just agree to not bring that up again.” After he nodded, she continued, “I actually just wanted to say that I don’t think the mirror was Tevinter. Not exactly. I mean, the ruins that were connected to the cave, they were elven ruins, too. Some weird combination or something. So maybe that mirror wasn’t Tevinter whenever it was first made. And if that thing was powerful enough to somehow end up corrupted with the taint, then that’s the sort of thing Morrigan would be looking into. Something that’s from before the taint and before the people who became the first darkspawn came to power.”

“You mean the time of Arlathan?”

“If anything has enough power to get her away from Thedas, it would be knowledge from that time, yes.” Líadan shrugged. “Maybe she even wants to go to Arlathan itself.”

“Is that even possible?”

“Traveling to the forest where Arlathan once was is possible. As for the city... maybe. I mean, it was buried whole and probably intact. Swallowed up by the ground. For all we know, there’s a dwarven city there now, secure from the darkspawn and surrounded by powerful, magical items that they can’t even use because dwarves don’t have magic.”

Malcolm considered the possibility. “You know, that would seriously piss Velanna off. I like it,” he said, and then chuckled.

Líadan laughed with him. “You’re right, it really would.”

Once he amusement passed, he asked, “Where would we even start trying to track any of this down, though?” Before she could give him a sarcastic reply, he quickly said, “Yes, I know. The Dalish.”

“I wasn’t going to say that, actually. Since there’s me, who just so happens to be Dalish, in case you hadn’t noticed—”

He grinned and threw in, “It isn’t like you go around shouting ‘I am the might of the Dalish!’ in combat like some other Dalish elf we know.”

Líadan practically growled and glared in the direction Velanna had gone scouting in with Nathaniel. “I swear to the Creators, the next time she does that, I will—”

“Ignore it, let it pass, and tolerate her less offensive behavior even though it tests our patience in ways we hadn’t thought possible?” he offered, remembering that they were the Senior Wardens, even though they were actually younger than Velanna. 

She growled again and Malcolm barely managed to suppress a laugh. Admittedly, this was where he found her adorable when angry. Since the anger wasn’t directed at him, he didn’t have to worry about violence aimed at him. Well, as long as he kept his feelings hidden, whether amusement or affection. Otherwise, he risked her wrath rapidly being turned onto him. But with her glaring off to wherever Velanna was, he could admire her profile without fear. Then again, given the conversation they’d had on the ship, he probably shouldn’t look at her like he was or think of her in that way... except that he couldn’t stop it. Yet even so, he couldn’t figure out the answer to his brother’s question. And, damn it all, that answer would reveal what it would be safe for him to do and feel and make everything stop being so unsettled.

“As I was saying,” Líadan said, now facing him with eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly, as if she knew that he’d been looking at her like he had and knew exactly what he’d been thinking. “We don’t need to go to the Dalish. Not right away. I think we should go to those ruins again and take another look. Weisshaupt wanted us to gather up what was left of the mirror anyway, right? Might as well do both before we ship it up there. It’d be a good start, at least. Unless you can think of something else?”

At the moment, he could think of several somethings that he wasn’t supposed to be thinking because this was _Líadan_. And she’d already told him that they couldn’t kiss again, which meant certainly not anything else his mind seemed determined to think about. Andraste’s ass, what was _wrong_ with him? They had an important mission ahead of them, not to mention all the other tasks remaining to do afterwards, plus there was the entire Morrigan complication and what she meant to him and he to her. “That sounds good,” he said out loud, and then forced himself to look elsewhere and think of other things. Creepy things, like darkspawn. Genlocks, hurlocks. Frightening things, like spiders and wolves and no—that made him think of a certain witch, which _really_ couldn’t be a good association. Back to darkspawn, then. Ogres. Shrieks. 

Then, thankfully, Nathaniel and Velanna were ahead of them on the road and riding back. They had found a good place for a camp for both the Wardens and the soldiers who would remain behind. The rest of the ride was quiet, save the reassuring thuds of the horses’ hooves against the ground. Though Líadan cast Malcolm a few amused or curious looks, she left him alone and didn’t prod him about his sudden distraction at the end of their conversation. Which was fortuitous, he thought, because it meant she wouldn’t do him any bodily harm. At least because of that, anyway.

The Highever guards insisted on setting up their tents a respectable distance from the Wardens’ tents, claiming they didn’t want to get caught in the middle of any Warden discussions. They also insisted on maintaining the watch for the night so that the Wardens climbing up into the mountains in the morning would have as much rest as they could. Malcolm politely objected, but the guards just as politely shot him down, so he gave up and agreed to it. Gunnar happily ran from campfire to campfire, unabashedly begging whatever scraps he could from Warden and guard alike. After he noticed the fourth person slip the dog a treat, Malcolm stood up and scolded Gunnar for being a shameless glutton. It only got him a happy bark in reply, followed quickly by even more begging. “Some prideful wardog _you_ are,” Malcolm mumbled in the dog’s general direction, which went blissfully ignored by the mabari.

Darkness fell quickly as each group checked over their weapons, armor, and supplies. Líadan was busy cursing several water stains on her leathers, while Malcolm was once again amazed at how silverite didn’t seem to rust. Judging by the dirty looks Líadan gave him and his chainmail, he figured himself lucky. Plus, it didn’t matter of the leather parts of his armor were water-stained or not, because sweat had already done a good job with that.

“Why do you insist on wearing armor into battle?” Velanna suddenly asked Líadan. “You’re a mage. You should be wearing robes.”

The other elf blew a few errant hairs out of her eyes as she looked up from her work on her armor to glare at Velanna. “And why do you insist on wearing pretty dresses into battle?”

“Hey now,” said Anders.

“Don’t worry, Anders, your dresses are still prettier,” Malcolm said. 

Velanna huffed, stood up, and walked toward her tent outside the light of the fire. Right as she passed into the shadows, she made a rude gesture towards Malcolm.

“Don’t think I didn’t see that,” he said, loudly enough for her to hear.

The Dalish elf spun on her heel. “How could you possibly have seen that?” she spluttered.

He didn’t bother hiding the amused smile. She probably assumed that where she was had been dark enough that only another elf would’ve seen her action. “Eyes, like everyone else.” Movement out the corner of his eye caught his attention and he he turned to watch what looked like another shadow in the dark. One with a very familiar silhouette. No. He _didn’t_. Malcolm shot to his feet and peered out into the bare forest. For Maker’s sake, it was. That moron. “Just what is the king doing skulking outside of our camp?” Malcolm said rather loudly.

Guards starting jumping to their feet and he waved them off, strolling towards where he knew his brother was attempting to hide. With his other hand, he signaled towards Gunnar, who bounded out into the forest and, with a bark of joy, pounced on the wayward king. Malcolm pushed through the skeletal branches and stood over his brother as Gunnar did his best to clean the king’s face with his tongue.

“Call him off!” Alistair shouted, pushing at the dog’s face with his gauntleted hands.

Behind the two brothers, all three mages had appeared, lights glowing from their staffs. Two of them—Anders and Líadan—were already starting to laugh, while Velanna had at least stopped scowling. 

Malcolm sighed. “Gunnar, let him up.”

With a bark, the dog moved off of the Fereldan king, who then pushed himself to his feet and started wiping at his face with his dark, woolen cloak. After a moment, Alistair slowly looked around to find everyone staring at him. He offered a repentant, affable grin. “Hey,” he said, drawing out the word. “Fancy meeting you all here.”

Oghren, the last one to wander over from the fire, held out a flask. “Ale?”

Alistair pursed his lips. “Depends. Surface or dwarven?”

“Surface. Saving the dwarven vintage for the Deep Roads.”

He held out his hand. “Sure, let’s have it.”

The dwarf started handing over the flask, but Malcolm intercepted it and pocketed the container. “No. No ale,” Malcolm said as soon as Oghren started to protest. “That would only encourage him and the _king_ hasn’t answered my question. Obviously it isn’t anything official or he wouldn’t have been trying to skulk around like a total idiot because he knows damn well that he can’t sneak. I’ve seen him try before. And fail. Horribly. Like just now, in fact.”

Alistair folded his arms across his chest. “That’s hardly a kind, brotherly welcome, is it?”

“Honestly, Malcolm, you should at least bring him to the fire before you interrogate him. If not for him, then for us, because it’s getting a bit chilly out here,” said Anders, rubbing his upper arms with his hands as if trying to ward off the cold for effect. When the rest of the Wardens gave him an incredulous look, Anders held up his hands. “What? I’m just saying how it is. I know the rest of you are cold and I’m sure the rest of you are as curious as I am as to why the king has randomly joined us at our camp in the dark of night.”

“I am beginning to think that this shemlen king is like a child,” said Velanna.

“Now you’re catching on,” Líadan said to her. “I think it’s something to do with the Theirin bloodline, actually.”

Malcolm smirked at her. “I dare you to tell Eamon that.”

She returned the smile. “Only if you’re prepared to hold him back from trying to take off my head after I do.”

“That was... not very nice, Líadan,” Alistair said, drawing his cloak closer to his body.

“It’s not my fault that you aren’t very _smart_ ,” she replied, and then narrowed her eyes. “You’re here because you want to go to the Deep Roads with us, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.” Alistair glanced over at Malcolm. “Can we please discuss this by the fire?”

Malcolm threw up his hands in frustration and walked back towards the firepit. Behind him, the rest of the Wardens and the king released sighs of relief. As they found seats around the campfire, Gunnar settled down next to Alistair, kindly sharing his drool and warmth. “Traitor,” Malcolm told his dog. “Or patriot, I suppose, depending on your viewpoint.”

“It’s a good thing you mabaris are so excessively warm,” Alistair said to Gunnar as he rubbed the dog’s back. “Otherwise, the amount of drool you expend would be unbearable.”

“It _is_ unbearable,” said Velanna. “It’s disgusting and unsanitary.”

Gunnar raised his head and growled at her. 

“Don’t you listen to the mean Dalish elf, Ser Dog,” Anders said. “Just listen to the nice one standing on the other side of the fire.”

Malcolm grinned over at Líadan, briefly forgetting his problematic brother. “You’ve become the nice one! Didn’t see that one coming, did you?”

“I can change that very quickly,” she replied, drawing sparks across one of her hands to illustrate.

Malcolm got the hint and dropped it, returning to the matter of the king suddenly appearing at their camp. “Alistair. We talked about this the other night with Fergus and Eamon. You can’t go with us into the Deep Roads. I mean, we can’t both go, and I’m the one Riordan put in charge, so I can’t just hand command over to you because you want to come out and play.”

Alistair gave him a pleading look, the best one he’d put on yet, Malcolm had to admit. “Please?” he asked. “Please let me come with you?”

“It would be incredibly stupid. Eamon would kill us both.” Yet Malcolm found himself already considering the possibility of allowing his brother to accompany them. Maybe Líadan was right about childish stupidity running within the Theirin bloodline. That didn’t bode well. And hadn’t Morrigan teased Alistair after the Landsmeet about a Theirin king requiring a personal drool-wiper because he drooled so much on himself? Perhaps she hadn’t been kidding after all.

“It’ll be just like old times!” Alistair clapped his hands together in gleeful excitement. “You’ll see!”

“Oh? You mean with the darkspawn and the assassins and being wanted traitors and all? Yeah, good times. Can’t wait to relive them. Really.” Malcolm pinched the bridge of his nose. “Alistair, I haven’t had _nearly_ enough ale for that kind of pleading to work on me.”

“You’ve got some fine ale in that flask of mine you took,” said Oghren. “Anyway, I say we sodding take the pike-twirler with us. It’ll be good to have another warrior swinging away in the muck of things with us over all these other blighters prancing around the outside of the real fight.”

Alistair nodded resolutely. “See? Oghren agrees with me.”

“Not exactly a point in your favor,” Malcolm replied without looking up from his forlorn study of the trampled grass under his feet.

“If we agree to let him accompany us, will he shut up?” asked Velanna.

Líadan burst into laughter. “No. He never shuts up. Ever. That’s actually how he kills darkspawn. He talks them to death. He just babbles on and on and eventually they just can’t take it anymore and kill themselves, just so they don’t have to hear him talk any longer. It’s shockingly effective.” Then the elf got another look in her eye, a mischievous one that Malcolm was well-familiar with. “On second thought, I think we should bring him,” she said directly to Malcolm.

He immediately understood what she didn’t say out loud. _Let’s bring Alistair because it will annoy the crap out of Velanna and that would be fantastic._ He couldn’t deny the appeal of torturing Velanna with Alistair’s incessant babbling. Malcolm also understood Oghren’s point of having another melee fighter with them. While Oghren covered his surprisingly tactical mind with alcohol and dirty jokes, he was really a very good warrior, both in physical and mental skill. Having another warrior with templar abilities around would come in particularly handy if they happened to run into the Architect, too. And Malcolm really liked the thought of fighting at his brother’s side again. Except Alistair happened to be the bloody sodding _King_ _of Ferelden_ and Eamon would kill them himself once they got back. He scowled and looked over at his brother again. Alistair was desperate to get out and do something and feel useful, physically useful like they’d both been during the Blight and Malcolm had been since he’d gotten back from Weisshaupt. At heart, the king was still a Grey Warden and it was the one job he’d loved doing, and was exceptionally good at. While Alistair had certainly grown into a good king and was well on his way to becoming a great one, he didn’t much like it. He shared the same restlessness that Malcolm had, the need to be out and doing something in the midst of everything. Court politics just didn’t work for that sort of thing. 

Part of that need sounded frighteningly like King Cailan and was a piece of what had gotten him killed in the end. However, Alistair had the advantage of being a far better warrior, and being far more able to be realistic about strategic and tactical situations. Well, as realistic as a young man could be, anyway. For the rest, that’s why he had advisors and why, for the most part, he even listened to them. Alistair had said, more than once, that he didn’t want to end up like Cailan.

Malcolm heaved a weary sigh. “Okay, fine,” he said to Alistair. “Just... no dying.”

Alistair grinned and looked the happiest Malcolm had seen him since he’d gotten back from the Anderfels. It made a tiny bit of him feel good about the decision. Unfortunately, it didn’t manage to override the rest of him that insisted on screaming about how bad an idea it was to let the king tag along on this Deep Roads trip. Though, they didn’t technically really have to go far into the Deep Roads. Just enough to survey where it was, where it connected to, figure out how to close it up, and then they would be done. So far, it was worth it to Malcolm just to see his brother truly happy again. 

Then he started to change his mind when Alistair leapt up and grabbed him into a bear hug, squeezing all the air of out his lungs in his expression of enthusiasm. “Thank you,” Alistair said. “You’ll probably regret it, but thank you anyway.”

“Already do,” Malcolm wheezed. 

“Oh, sorry! Didn’t mean to suffocate you.” Alistair let him go, and then glanced at the other Wardens, who stared at the two brothers with a mixture of expressions. Oghren looked like, well, Oghren, slightly drunk and slightly surly. Nathaniel’s face remained in its ever-present state of dark blankness, while Anders seemed pleased. Líadan looked astonished that Malcolm had actually agreed, while Velanna had already resumed glaring at the king. “So,” said Alistair, “all of you can call me Alistair. I’m a Warden here, not the king. I’m not even in charge for once, that’s Malcolm. I’m just another Warden on this expedition. No ‘your Majesties’ or ‘sires’ or ‘your highnesses’ or ‘my lords’ or any of that rot. Please.”

“Pike-twirler?” said Oghren.

Alistair squinted in thought. “That’ll do, too, I suppose.”

“Nug-licker?”

“Er, no. Preferably not.”

“Oghren,” said Malcolm, stopping him before the nicknames got any dirtier, because they could, and once, _had_ and it had been awful and he was still trying to forget.

“I’ll stop if you give me back my ale.”

Malcolm automatically fetched out the flask and tossed it to the dwarf. Oghren immediately opened it up and took a long sip, and then shared it with Alistair, who then passed it to Anders. The air around Malcolm shifted and Líadan sat down next to him. “You brought this on yourself,” she said quietly and with a hint of amusement. Then it faded. “Do you really think this is a good idea, bringing him?”

“Of course not,” he answered. “In fact, it’s a _terrible_ idea. But he needs to feel useful. To be doing something real with his hands, like killing darkspawn. He’s a Warden at heart and always will be.” As soon as he said it, Malcolm knew it to be even more truthful than when he’d merely thought it. The other Wardens drifted away from the firepit. Alistair, Oghren, Anders, and a half-willing Nathaniel trooped over to the soldiers’ fire to share the ale, while Velanna retreated to her tent.

“So why did you help make him king?” Líadan asked.

A pang of remorse traveled through his chest. It had been the only real way to unite Ferelden enough in time to stop the Blight, he knew that. And yet, he still felt badly about it, because out of anything Alistair had ever done, he had absolutely loved being a Warden. Malcolm hadn’t wanted to be king, either, but he also didn’t feel the same way about the Wardens as Alistair did. He supposed he would’ve tolerated being a king, as at least he wouldn’t have been giving up a career he loved. But they had to put Alistair forth for the throne, because they were already on fairly thin precedence by presenting a bastard as the heir, basing the inheritance on bloodline and ignoring legitimacy. Trying to put the _younger_ bastard forth for the throne never would have stood a chance. Admittedly, Malcolm had been relieved that the responsibility hadn’t fallen to him. Yet seeing Alistair so unhappy in his current position, when he’d been happy when he was a Warden was hard to take, especially when Malcolm wasn’t happy, either. He sighed and said, “Because he had to be.”

“I know,” Líadan replied, taking his hand and threading her fingers through his. “I wanted to make sure you remembered that you didn’t do this to him. No one really had a choice. It was just... the way it had to be.”

She understood, he realized, much like Morrigan had claimed to. How odd. And now Malcolm was afraid to move, fearing that any sudden movement would bring a quick end to her unexpected show of affection. Her hand in his was warm and reassuring and carried the wave of memory of what’d happened between them on the ship. It made no sense at all that she would tell him that what had occurred should never happen again, and yet not even days later, do this. “Strange, how everything that has to be always hurts so much,” he said, and closed his eyes against the urge to look at her, because he was certain he’d do what she’d asked him not to if he did.

“Yes, it is,” she replied, the hint of a hitch catching at her words.

His chest constricted as he fought the impulse to turn and act. He wanted to hide his heart somehow, to bury it so that it wouldn’t do this to him, so it wouldn’t make him feel so conflicted and confused and frozen. Then the cold chill of night once again caressed his fingers. 

When he opened his eyes, she was gone. 

He wasn’t surprised. He would have done the same.

 


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36**

“Then the ptarmigan spoke up, and offered to find the god-chief’s heart. The other birds laughed, for the ptarmigan is a tiny bird, too humble to soar, which spends half its time hopping on the ground. The Lady would not give the little creature her blessing, for the mountains were too fierce even for eagles, but the ptarmigan set out anyway.

The little bird traveled deep into the Frostbacks. When she could not fly, she crawled. She hugged the ground and weathered the worst mountain winds, and so made her lonely way to the valley where the heart beat. With all the god’s terrible deeds, the heart was far too heavy for the tiny bird to carry, so she rolled it, little by little, out of the valley and down a cliff, and when the golden cask struck the earth, it shattered. The heart was full almost to bursting, and the pain of it roused the mountain god to come see what had happened.

When Korth neared his heart, it leapt back into his chest and he was whole again. Then Hakkon Wintersbreath bound Korth’s chest with three bands of iron and three bands of ice, so it could never again escape. And all the remaining gods named the ptarmigan honored above even the loftiest eagles.”

—from _The Ptarmigan: An Avvar Tale_

**Malcolm**

As he squinted up at the sheer rock walls decorated with sparking rivulets of ice on either side of them, Malcolm’s stomach growled. He smiled, remembering what he’d tucked away early that morning at their third camp in the mountains and fetched it from his side pouch. Then he happily gnawed away on the thick chunk of hard cheese he’d saved for a mid-morning snack. They’d consumed the last of the cheese that morning, aside from this last piece. Their supply, having not been planned for the addition of the king, had dwindled, and then disappeared with frightening speed.

“You’re eating cheese,” came Alistair’s incredulous voice from next to him.

Since his brother’s comment merely stated the obvious, Malcolm didn’t bother to answer. Instead, he merely continued their hike up the narrowing path on the mountainside. Then he caught a flicker of movement at the corner of his vision as Alistair tried to snatch the cheese. Malcolm quickly jumped out of Alistair’s reach and held the food as far away as he could. “It’s mine,” he informed his brother. “I’m the one who saved it from breakfast. You can’t have it.”

Alistair’s gaze became as incredulous as his original inquiry had been. “What, you can’t share? What kind of brother are you?”

“The kind who saves his food if he wants a snack later, that’s what kind. I’m not sharing. You could’ve saved your own, you know. Now, off with you. Let me enjoy my snack in peace.”

A scowl formed on the king’s face as he made another move for the cheese. Malcolm dodged out of the way, cheese safely out of his brother’s reach. “You’re a horrible person,” Alistair said, staring sadly after him.

“Try to take my food again and I will stab you in the face, king or no,” Malcolm told him.

“You would commit high treason and fratricide over a piece of cheese?”

“Cheese is worth it. Especially when there isn’t any more to be had.”

“By the Creators!” Velanna exclaimed from behind the pair. “It’s like being with children! Three days straight of this kind of behavior. Are they always like this?”

“Aye,” said Oghren.

“How do you stand it, dwarf?”

Malcolm glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Oghren lift a flask in Velanna’s direction, grin, and take a slug. “Ale. Want some? I’m willing to share. No strings attached.”

Velanna’s hand actually seemed to drift slowly towards the flask. Malcolm felt his eyes go wide in disbelief, that the elf would dare to try the ale, considering what mouth had been on that flask.

Alistair took the moment’s distraction to grab the remaining cheese from Malcolm’s fingers and run ahead of them on the trail, laughing with glee. “You!” Malcolm shouted, and ran after him. Behind him, Velanna muttered what he was certain was a curse in Elvish, and then in Fereldan she said to Oghren she’d try anything at this point and to hand over the flask. 

Since he was wearing lighter armor, Malcolm managed to catch up to his brother, and without a moment’s hesitation, tackled him. The cheese went flying from Alistair’s hand when the two armored men hit the ground. They pushed and punched at each other as they tried to scrabble to where the hunk of cheese had landed. 

A pair booted feet appeared in Malcolm’s field of vision. “Oh, hey. Cheese! I thought we saw the last of it this morning!” a voice said brightly. Then Líadan’s graceful fingers picked it up and popped it into her mouth. As she chewed, she gave the brothers a quizzical look. “Why are you rolling around on the ground?” Then her mind seemed to remember the past few days and she held up her hand as she swallowed her food. “Nevermind. I don’t want to know. Just get up. Nathaniel and I found something interesting up ahead. Could be the Creators-damned entrance, which would be great. About a thirty minute hike from here.” She made a face. “I liked the downhill much better. That was just ten. And had cheese at the end.”

Glaring first at Líadan, and then at each other, Malcolm and Alistair slowly got to their feet and brushed the trail’s dirt off themselves.

Four days ago, they had left Gunnar with the Highever soldiers at the camp in the foothills, as the mabari could sense the approach of darkspawn as well as any Grey Warden. With a lot of whining and barking, Gunnar had expressed his displeasure at being ordered to stay behind without a single one of the people he normally protected with his life, but eventually capitulated after promises of many treats from the soldiers. Malcolm knew the dog really understood what was going on, and not for the first time, felt incredibly grateful for the astounding intelligence of the mabari. The soldiers were also left with explicit instructions not to run and tell Arl Eamon about Alistair’s whereabouts. However, Malcolm did tell them, out of Alistair’s earshot, that if someone wanted to let Fergus know, that would be acceptable. It really didn’t matter how they found out, though. What mattered was that when they did, they would be livid, both Fergus _and_ Eamon. The teyrn would be more angry about having to deal with a surly Eamon for however long this mission took the Wardens, Malcolm knew. Eamon, though, he wasn’t sure about. Recalling the arl’s words when they’d discussed the idea of Alistair accompanying them to Drake’s Fall, Malcolm wondered if Eamon really _would_ resign. Part of him hoped the arl would, but the other wasn’t sure who they could replace Eamon with. Alistair needed a chancellor and Malcolm certainly couldn’t do it, not with all the Warden—and Morrigan—responsibilities he had. Teagan, maybe, but he was notoriously apolitical. Fergus had too many responsibilities with Highever and Malcolm still wanted to try and put forth that restructuring of Amaranthine that would revert most of it back to the teyrnir. 

Then Malcolm thought of someone and he nearly burst into laughter. _Anora_. She’d do well, he thought, if she wouldn’t be trying to take the throne while doing the job. Most likely, it was a horrible idea despite Anora’s skills, but the thought of her being chancellor tickled him. Probably because it would be a fantastic way to get even with Alistair for this stunt of his in coming with them to the mountains and possibly forcing Eamon to resign before they knew who would be a suitable replacement—and amenable to the appointment. 

“Out of curiosity,” said Líadan, “whose cheese was it?”

Malcolm fired another glare at his brother. “Mine. Except Alistair decided to be a royal bastard.”

“Came up with that one all on your own, did you?” asked Alistair.

“I hate you. You are not my favorite brother right now.”

Alistair annoyed Malcolm further by chuckling. “See? It’s just like old times! Want to yell at me? You haven’t started the yelling yet. I must be getting rusty.”

“Are you sure they weren’t raised together?” Anders asked Nathaniel.

“Positive. Alistair was raised mostly in the Chantry. I can’t imagine how much worse it would be if they’d grown up together.” Nathaniel chuckled softly. “They’re already worse than I was with my own brother and sister.”

“You have a sister?” Velanna asked.

Nathaniel gave her a curious look. “My lady, you were there when I met her for the first time since I’d gotten back from the Free Marches. Previous to seeing her in Amaranthine a few days ago, I had thought she was dead. I never grew used to the idea that I no longer had a sister. I was obviously relieved to find her and one would think it would’ve been noticeable.” Then a small, fond smile appeared on his face. “Though, now that I think about it, I’m not sure why I feel so compelled to be nice to her. When we were children, she  put beetles in my blankets. She would laugh to hear me shriek.”

Malcolm suppressed his own laughter, realizing that what Nathaniel had just said was probably the longest string of sentences he’d uttered at once since being made a Grey Warden. 

Alistair rubbed at the scruff on his chin. “Beetles, I hadn’t thought of those.”

“I’d try spiders first, if Malcolm’s your target,” Líadan told him.

“Seranni liked to put sap in my hair,” said Velanna, surprisingly joining in on the sibling memories. “She also pushed me into an icy river. Twice.”

Anders gave Velanna a mock-surprised look. “I can’t imagine why she would do such a thing.”

She ignored the jibe. “Why did I want to rescue her, again?”

“Siblings are like that,” Malcolm said with a sigh. “Blood or adopted, doesn’t matter. They just get under your skin and you find out that you’re fond of them, even when you want to—”

“Stab them in the face?” Alistair offered. “Or yell at them?”

“I’m not going to yell at you,” Malcolm replied very slowly, like he was speaking to a small child, and then he sighed. “That would only guarantee darkspawn showing up if this is truly anything like old times. Líadan mentioned that the other day, actually, that you and I never once finished an argument because we were always interrupted by random attacks from bandits or darkspawn or werewolves or assassins or... pretty much whatever you could think of.”

Alistair shaded his eyes with his hand and studied the looming gap in the cliffs ahead of them. “Or you punched me.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “I never punched you. I pushed you. Besides, _you_ were the one who punched _me_.”

His brother started to laugh again. “Wasn’t that the fight where Morrigan petrified the both of us and asked if we needed to be sent to opposite corners of the camp, and then threatened to leave us petrified like that all night if we didn’t behave?”

That incident, Malcolm remembered vividly. Morrigan had been the angriest he’d ever seen her, though it had been early in their endeavor to end the Blight, just a short time after Ostagar. Her fingers had drummed impatiently and in a most threatening manner on her staff and her eyes had changed to burn in a golden fire. “She was pretty pissed that we woke her up,” he said. “She glared daggers at us for days afterward.”

Alistair scoffed. “She _always_ glared daggers at me. You were the one who eventually got the moony eyes and kissy faces.”

And the regret made its return, prickling into Malcolm’s heart. He tried to foist it off using humor. “Are you saying that you wanted moony eyes and kissy faces from Morrigan?”

The king let out a very unmanly squeak. “Maker, no!”

The regret refused to leave and expressed itself as bitter anger in Malcolm’s unbidden words. “Then. Shut. Up.”

An awkward silence fell over the group and stayed as they continued trudging toward the narrow gap in the cliffs. Líadan and Nathaniel had done most of the scouting for the past four days, Nathaniel using the skills he’d picked up in the Free Marches and Líadan her Dalish hunter abilities that she far preferred using to her magic. As much as she professed liking being a mage, she often talked about how she found a certain artistry and satisfaction in good fieldcraft. As Malcolm had no fieldcraft skills of which to speak, he took her word for it. The temperatures had dropped the further up the mountains they got, making all of them thankful at night for the thicker, warmth-enchanted tents they’d pulled from Highever’s supplies. When they passed on the north side of one of the taller mountains that comprised Drake’s Fall, Malcolm hadn’t much liked the clouds he’d seen over the Waking Sea. They threatened snow and he didn’t want to be caught in the higher elevations when the storm broke. It held off for now, but every flurry that crossed over made him nervous that it would be the herald of the larger storm in the holding pattern off the coast. In fact, the last flurry had petered out not even half an hour before he’d tried to have a snack. Before the flurry, there had been some footprints on the trail, but worn enough where neither scout could figure out if they were from a man or darkspawn. Even a detailed footprint would’ve been hard to decipher, given that darkspawn boots were pretty much the same as human boots. And for some soldiers, that similarity included the smell.

Then Alistair said, “You know, you ruled out yelling at me, but you didn’t say you wouldn’t stab me in the face.”

“Must have slipped my mind,” Malcolm replied, the tightness in his chest easing as the regret faded to stab him again unexpectedly at another time. The tension in the air faded just as the regret did. Malcolm realized it must’ve shown on his face, then, and the others had noticed. For someone raised in the nobility, he really was horrible at keeping a straight face. The only time he was good at it was when it was part of a joke, and even then it was difficult. Malcolm slowly stepped through the gap, wider than they’d thought before from further way. Líadan walked next to him, mentioning the ruins she and Nathaniel had noticed when they’d found the gap earlier. 

“I think those might be Tevinter,” she said, touching him on the shoulder before pointing in the direction of one of the large towers in the small clearing.

Malcolm stopped just beyond the gap and studied the tower closely, his breath coalescing in white puffs around his face in the cold mountain air. They _did_ look Tevinter, the soaring, fluted construction reminding him strongly of Ostagar and Kinloch Hold, among other places. Inaccessible, though, at least for now. Talus from rockfalls off the cliffs surrounding the clearing had collected around the entire tower, covering any readily available entrances. Moss and lichen covered the rock fragments, spots of color peeking out from under ice and snow. That would make for very slick going should they attempt to find another entrance higher up on the tower. No, they definitely didn’t have time for that now. In the late spring, though, they could return and do some proper exploration. His eyes swept over the clearing, noting a second tower on the opposite side, but just as covered as the first.

The entire place felt familiar. Ruined pillars, ancient era buildings in the Tevinter style constructed into the bedrock of a mountain located in a cirque hidden deep within remote mountains. All they needed was a high dragon and some crazy cultists, and perhaps some ashes, and they’d be ready to run the Gauntlet again. Malcolm’s gaze immediately shifted to search the sky, just in case, because that would be their luck, after all. He squinted at the waning sun just above the cliffs. It would be dark soon, meaning they would probably end up camping in this cirque. It at least kept a little of the wind out and, for the moment, had no darkspawn.

“No dragon yet, thankfully,” said Alistair, apparently having felt the same familiarity. “Though it really does remind me of that dragon-infested area in the Frostbacks, that’s for sure.”

“Yes, well, I don’t really fancy fighting a high dragon, anyway.” Malcolm returned his  gaze to the clearing. 

“Not unless you’re trying to kill the mother of a woman you fancy,” his brother replied. Since he’d been absent for many of the recent developments concerning Morrigan, he was oblivious to the undercurrent of frustration regarding the witch. His continued attempts at humor while invoking Morrigan’s name only gave more evidence to the face of his obliviousness.

“Alistair, leave it,” came a sharp reprimand from Líadan.

“Is that some sort of strange shemlen courting ritual I’m unaware of?” Velanna asked.

“What? No, no,” Alistair said. “I was talking about Morrigan’s mother. Which, now that I think about it, I shouldn’t have brought up. But, I’ll tell you this—”

Malcolm strode further into the clearing as Alistair told Velanna about Flemeth and her demise. Well, what they thought had been her demise, back then. No longer were they so sure that the ancient abomination was truly dead. Slowed, maybe, but probably not really dead. Right now he was just happy enough not to have to listen to the story again. The flurry from earlier that day had blanketed the area with a thin layer of fluffy white snow and it crunched underfoot as he walked. In the middle of the clearing was some sort of collapsed stone structure, apparently having fallen from the cliff face centuries ago, as the scar left on the cliff was worn by the weather. Malcolm brushed off some of the snow, studying the blocky lines of its construction, in direct contrast to the circular and arching lines of the Tevinter architecture. No, he thought as he revealed more of the structure, this had to be dwarven. His conjecture was confirmed when his efforts unveiled a stylized dwarven face. A statue, then, like they had near the gates of Orzammar, and ones found outside the abandoned thaigs in the Deep Roads. 

“Dwarven,” said Oghren. “Though I don’t know how fine dwarven engineering could have collapsed after only a few centuries.”

“Looks like it was probably more like a thousand years, not a few hundred,” said Malcolm. 

The dwarf gave the blocky statue a good kick. “Still no excuse, not when those pansy Tevinter towers are still standing. Dwarven stuff’s built to stand forever.”

“Maybe the missing dragon knocked down the dwarven statues out of spite, then.” His eyes followed the cliff wall from where the statue had been to another talus slope nearby. But this slope had a large opening tunneled through it, gaping wide and black into the clearing. He rose and looked on the ground for more evidence of darkspawn passing through. 

There it was. The newly fallen snow had drifted into the churned up frozen mud at the mouth of the opening. Clear signs of high traffic in the area fairly recently. Frowning in concentration, he walked over to the opening, reaching out to see what he could feel with the taint. There was a twinge, but an incredibly faint one. Whatever darkspawn were there, they were far away, or far below, depending. No danger at the moment, he knew that much. He shucked the pack from his back and leaned it up against some of the broken rocks outside the tunnel. If he was going to do any more investigating, he’d need a torch. As his hand closed around one, he heard a sound of amused disapproval from behind him.

He turned to find Líadan and Anders standing there with grins on their faces and the ends of their staffs brightly lit. “Torches are _so_ last year,” said Anders. “Seriously, you brought three mages with you and you still assume you need a torch?”

“I can’t personally light a staff on my own,” Malcolm replied, returning the unlit torch to his pack.

“Bet you could’ve lit that Antivan’s,” said Oghren. “Course, anyone could’ve.”

Malcolm motioned for the mages to lead the way, and then said, “Not anyone. I doubt he would’ve had anything to do with you, Oghren.”

“Good thing he didn’t try anything or I might’ve had to hurt the swishy nug-licker.”

Anders looked from Oghren to Malcolm and Líadan. “Who is he going on about?”

“Zevran,” Líadan answered.

“He was Antivan,” Malcolm said, as if that would explain everything, which it did.

“Bloody Antivans,” muttered Oghren.

“Right.” Anders didn’t look entirely convinced, despite his words, but left the subject alone. “So what are we looking for, exactly? I mean, an entrance to the Deep Roads, yes. But how far in are we going?”

Malcolm shrugged. “I guess until we’re sure it’s the Deep Roads and we know there aren’t many darkspawn around. Then we mark it and get back to the valley and get the dwarves Riordan hired. Not sure how they’ll shut the entrance, exactly, but that’s the general idea.”

The mage poked his stave partway into the entrance and waved it around. “So should we really be going in there now, just before nightfall?”

“It isn’t like it’ll be any darker down there,” said Oghren.

“Well, personally, I’d rather sleep up here over sleeping in the Deep Roads,” said Anders.

“Were Oghren not a dwarf, you’d have a point,” Malcolm said.

“Hey now, just because I’m a dwarf and I like normal things like having some sodding stone over your head instead that big open danger you surfacers call a sky, doesn’t mean I like sleeping in the Deep Roads. Who do you think I am, Branka?”

“I don’t recall your ex having a beard,” said Líadan.

Oghren’s eyes lit up under his bushy eyebrows at the opening and Malcolm spoke quickly to stop him from taking advantage. “Not one word,” he told the dwarf. “I don’t care if your insides implode and you die, you are not to go any further with that line of thought. Anyway, Anders does have a good point. We’ll just have to make camp for the night and go exploring in the morning. We’ll have to bring everything with us, though, because I’m not sure how long it’ll take us down there to find the actual connection with the Deep Roads.”

Líadan crossed her arms and dubiously studied the talus slope. “Or... we could just make another cave-in happen, not go in the Deep Roads at all, and call it a day.”

“They’d just tunnel through again if we do it, and not the dwarves,” said Malcolm. “And we do need to figure out if this is the entrance or not.”

“Obviously it’s an entrance to something,” Velanna said, coming up behind them.

“Something ominous.” Alistair stood with the other Wardens and peered at the opening for a moment. Then he asked Malcolm, “You feel it?”

Malcolm had wondered if anyone else had, since no one had mentioned it yet. “Yes. Just... twinges. Peripheral. Nowhere close, but the darkspawn are around-ish, somewhere down there.”

“That is such a fantastic tactical appraisal,” said Alistair. “There’s enemies! Somewhere! Somewhere in the deep!” Then he frowned. “Unfortunately, that’s as accurate as we can get right now. I can’t feel anything beyond that, either.”

Not bothering to answer his brother, Malcolm rolled his eyes, dug his tent out of his pack, and looked for a spot to pitch it. The others followed suit and they had a camp set up and a fire crackling cheerily in the middle of the clearing by the time full night fell. Nathaniel set traps at the gap to the mountainside and the entrance to the tunnel, with Velanna following him and setting wards. They’d keep watch, too, but having things that would slow down any sudden darkspawn appearances always came in handy. Even though he wanted to kill his brother, Alistair paired himself with him for the night watch, mostly because he didn’t often get to see him and he figured he should take the opportunities he could. Even if he ended up committing fratricide. It came with the territory. Then to irritate Alistair and be nice to everyone else, he assigned himself and his brother midwatch. It was Anders’ turn to sleep the night without watch, which left Malcolm to figuring out who would partner up with whom and have the lesser chance of a spectacular argument. 

Nathaniel could quietly endure anyone, because pretty much all Nathaniel did was quietly endure. But if he assigned Oghren and Nathaniel together, then Líadan and Velanna would... no, that would be bad. He chuckled at the idea of Oghren and Velanna, but that had the possibility of being even worse. That left Nathaniel with Velanna and poor Líadan with Oghren. Then again, she could give the dwarf as good as she got, so it should turn out okay.

Or they’d wake up to a dead dwarf. But, if she hadn’t killed Oghren by now, she probably never would. Same went for everyone they’d traveled with during the Blight. Well, except maybe Morrigan, but she was a hard case.

After they’d eaten the evening meal, Malcolm pulled out the map of Drake’s Fall that he’d taken from Highever’s library and marked where they’d found the cirque and the possible entrance. He really did want to have people come up here in the early summer, when weather was mostly reliably fair, to try and get into the Tevinter towers. The cold continued to sap at each person’s reserve of bodily warmth and Malcolm huddled further and further into his woolen cloak. Eventually he gave up on the map and put it and the writing implements away before his fingers got frostbitten. While knowledge and exploration were important, he’d rather keep his hands intact. That idea in mind, he said good night and retreated to his warm tent and bedroll before he found himself climbing into the fire just to get out of the cold. Sleep stole him quickly.

_Dragons fell from the sky. Throngs of people scattered, running in every direction as they tried to avoid the falling beasts. Some pitched forward into gaping maws cracking through the ground below, tumbling in just before a plummeting dragon. The beast’s iridescent scales caught the last vestiges of sunlight as it twisted and writhed in an attempt to stop its fall. It made no matter and it—and the six others that had flown with it—plunged out of sight, into the dark depths. Screams echoed from the open pits as they closed up, cries for help in children’s voices. As the last crack sealed closed, another dragon, its maroon scales dark against the bright sky, flew in tight, angry circles above the now-sealed ground. The cries from within fell silent, and the dragon shouted in rage, opening its great jaws and setting fire to everything below in its agony of helplessness. Another swoop, and then it transformed, its shape withdrawing and becoming smaller, growing feathers and a beak. It cawed as it arced across the sky. Then its head snapped up and its golden eyes saw him—_

“Wake up, you nughumping son of a whore!”

“I’m awake!” said Malcolm. “Don’t make me defend my mother’s honor this late at night. It’s way too cold to fight a duel.”

“You couldn’t beat me anyway, not on your best day,” Oghren shot back, his head poking through the tent flap. 

Malcolm wondered how long the dwarf had been trying to wake him up. “I wouldn’t even dare try to best you in a fight, Oghren. You’re just that good.”

The dwarf nodded. “Sodding right.” His disappeared from the tent and Malcolm quickly pulled his armor on, threw his cloak around him, picked up his sword and shield, and went outside. Alistair was already up and desperately trying to warm himself at the fire, Oghren and Líadan standing nearby. Oghren grinned at him as soon as he stepped out of his tent. 

Malcolm came to a dead halt and frowned. He knew that grin. That was a _bad_ grin. It meant Oghren was about to say bad things. “What?”

“With the moaning going on in there, I wasn’t sure if you were having a nightmare or dreaming about some girl,” said the dwarf. Then he leered in Líadan’s direction. “Or _with_ some girl.”

She smacked him on the back of his head for his effort. “I was standing watch with you, you ass,” she said. Muttering to herself and shooting more than a few dirty looks at Oghren over her shoulder, she ducked into her tent.

“Huh,” said Oghren, rocking on his heels. “Guess it was a nightmare, then.”

Malcolm shook his head, trying to stop the image of the piercing golden eyes from staring at him. “You could say that.”

Oghren grunted. “Archdemon?” 

“No.”

“Good. Not a Blight then. I’m off to bed. Wake me up if you see an archdemon.” Oghren stumbled off and disappeared into his tent.

Malcolm went to studying the fire as he sat down on one of the larger rocks they’d drawn close to the firepit. “At least I don’t think it’s an archdemon,” he said a few minutes later.

Alistair peered at him curiously. “You don’t _think_ it’s an archdemon? What’s that mean?”

He sighed. “I dreamed about dragons again.” Admittedly, the dragon dreams were somehow much less frightening than the archdemon dreams from the Blight, but they were still unsettling in their own way. There weren’t really many ways to dream about dragons in good ways, after all.

“Again?” Alistair scowled. “This is another reason why I hate being king. I have no idea what’s going on with you or the Wardens or anything. You’re really dreaming about dragons? I hope you at least told Riordan.” When Malcolm nodded, Alistair prompted, “And what did he say?”

“That it can’t be good.”

“That is... really not helpful advice.” Alistair looked away from the fire and directly at his younger brother, his eyes concerned and serious. “So are you going to tell me everything that’s going on or do I need to drag it out of you?”

“No, I’ll tell you.” Then Malcolm proceeded to bring Alistair up to speed, including everything that’d happened with Velanna, the advancements with Morrigan’s ring and the possibility of narrowing down her exact location and the involvement of the Dalish, and the dreams about dragons. And werewolves. As a properly educated Fereldan, Alistair seemed fairly nonplussed at the idea of werewolves. And as a survivor of the Blight, dragons didn’t much phase him either, except for what sort of thing they could herald, such as a Blight. Or Flemeth. And he wasn’t even sure which was worse. Alistair already had the latest information about the templars and the Tevinters, as they’d told the templars at Highever about the Tevinter blood mage after running the idea by him. The rest, though, took a few minutes to really sink in, and the king remained silent and studied the flames as it did.

“Riordan was right. This can’t be good,” Alistair finally said. “The question is—is the dragon Morrigan or Flemeth? Or both? And who or what are the others?”

“I don’t think it’s Morrigan. Not the dragon. There were enough bad fights during the Blight where any of us was in enough danger that if she had the awesome advantage of being able to turn into a sodding dragon, she’d have done it.” His mood darkened as he realized that it could be justified in a couple of ways: either because she loved him too much to let him die or because she needed him too much for her plan to have the Old God child.

“True.”

Then Malcolm asked, “Would the templars kill her if... if she is truly with child?” There was some hope that they might not, he’d supposed, after learning of Ser Ava’s actions. It proved that there were templars who weren’t entirely blind to compassion and basic humanity.

Alistair stared into the fire for a long time. “Yes.” Anticipating Malcolm’s next question, he said, “They wouldn’t even hesitate.” Then he looked over at his brother. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

The flames blurred in front of Malcolm. “Me, too.”


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37**

“There Dane dwelled,

And fifty swords were worn to rusted ruin

Before at last he found the cave of the Fenshal,

Ancient keeper of the mountains, bane of the wolves

Dane sought a way in which the dragon might be felled.”

—from _The Saga of Dane and the Werewolf_ , 4:50 Black

**Malcolm**

****“There’s that noise,” Malcolm said to Alistair as they walked through the tunnel under the mountain.

“What—” Alistair fell silent and tilted his head. “Oh, _that_ noise. Sort of like gurgling? Gurgling and moaning from some deep, dark, giant creature waiting in the dark?”

Malcolm’s eyes moved over the walls of the tunnel, searching for hints of construction and dressed stones instead of a crude tunnel carved through bare rock. Flecks of mica reflected the light from the three mages’ staffs, drawing Malcolm’s attention for no reason other than being shiny. Líadan walked between him and Alistair, while Velanna walked up front with Nathaniel, leaving Anders in the back with the dwarf. “I hate that noise,” Malcolm continued. “I heard it below the Tower of Ishal and in the Deep Roads. And—”

“The Proving Grounds,” Oghren added from the rear of the group. “You know, I always assumed it was my innards.”

“I’m not sure which would be worse,” said Nathaniel. “Your innards or some gruesome creature of the deep.”

“I’m not so sure they’re different things,” Alistair said.

Oghren chuckled, and then grinned. “Heh. Hey, Velanna, want to see my gruesome creature of the deep?”

“Not if you wish to keep it, dwarf,” she called back. 

“She reminds me too much of another witch I know,” Oghren grumbled. 

Malcolm frowned in his friend’s direction. “They are nothing alike.”

“Oh, I know, I know. One’s blonde, the other brunette, one’s an elf, the other’s human, one’s a witch, the other’s a—”

“Dwarf, just because two women happen to share the similarity of not wanting to bed you does not mean they are entirely alike,” said Velanna.

“Who said anything about bedding?” Oghren managed to sound almost convincingly indignant. “Maybe I had a painting or something to show you. Heh. Or _something_. Get it?” He waited through their rolled eyes and grumbles for replies. “Anyway, now that I think about it, you and the witch are nothing alike. I mean, sure, she was bitchy like you, but at least she was sporting about it. You take the fun out of everything and make trees come alive and eat people. That’s just wrong.”

“This from the man who enjoys pickled nug?” said Alistair.

Malcolm gave his brother a grateful look, as he knew he should say something to make Oghren stop, but was having a hard time doing so when he kind of agreed with the dwarf. At least about the taking the fun out of everything part. Well, maybe not so much any more. Velanna wasn’t nearly as bad as she had been. After all, it’d been days since she’d killed a human. Practically a record for her. That fact that she hadn’t yet killed—or even maimed—Oghren spoke volumes on how far she’d come since they’d met her in the Wending Wood.

“You’ve no idea what you’re missing,” Oghren said to Alistair.

Alistair grimaced. “I’ve got a vague idea, I think. And I’d like to keep it vague.”

“The walls change up here,” Nathaniel said from the front, coming to a stop. The rest of the group crowded around him, studying the transitional area between plain tunnel and Deep Roads an hour’s walk from where they’d entered through the surface. Debris that looked like it once might have been a sealing door littered the ground, with niches set into the tunnel’s walls that might once have held the door. They stepped through the first to find the remains of a second, and then a third door, the locking mechanisms in pieces and all but gone. Beyond the third door, paving stones shined dully in the light from Velanna’s staff. They had found the Deep Roads. 

Oghren picked up a chunk of one of the locks, studied it for a moment, scoffed, and dropped it back to the ground. His message was clear: there was no salvaging any of the locks, much less the doors. When the entire party had passed through the third door, they found that the Deep Roads entrance started at a split, one passage angling to the northeast, and the other, northwest. An ancient sign stood at the intersection, possibly an explanation of the location or where this particular section led to. Closer inspection revealed that the dwarven runes had long since been worn almost entirely smooth. Oghren stood and stared at it, eyes squinting as he tried to read it. They had left the grumbling sound behind in the outer tunnel.

Malcolm walked around the small area of the intersection, noting scuff marks on the dusty ground and fresh score marks on the stones of the walls that could only be caused by a bladed weapon. “A lot of darkspawn came through here somewhat recently,” he said. “There’s... whiffs of the taint, for lack of a better explanation. I can’t feel a horde or even an especially large group, but... I don’t know. It feels off, somehow.” He looked over at Alistair for input, as Alistair was slightly better at sensing darkspawn than he was. Part of him wished they’d brought Fiona, as she would’ve known pretty much instantly and exactly where and how many darkspawn there were. However, one problem with Fiona having been cured of the ill-effects of the taint was that they didn’t know if she kept the immunity to the taint. Best not test it in the Deep Roads, Malcolm thought. Or ever, really, if it could be helped. It was strange to think that she’d end up outliving probably both him and Alistair. Elves, even though they’d lost the immortality of their ancestors, still tended to live longer lifespans than humans. It wasn’t that far out of the question for an elf, city or Dalish, to live to be over a hundred years old. Then Malcolm realized that he had no idea how old his natural mother was. It was hard to tell, at times, with elves, and Fiona was no exception. Even Líadan looked younger than her years, looking around Malcolm’s age, though she was twenty-three—or was she twenty-four now?—to his twenty. Nearly twenty-one, he realized. His birthday was just a few months from now.

He almost stopped short. Twenty? Was he really only twenty when he felt far older than that? Maker’s mercy, he technically wasn’t even old enough to inherit yet. You had to be twenty-one for that, unless the Landsmeet granted an exception. Alistair had scraped by that one being a couple years older than Malcolm. He would have to ask Fiona, if he could find a polite way to do it, how old she was. How old had she been when she’d gone in that expedition to the Deep Roads with Duncan and Maric and the others? Then Malcolm had to hold in a giggle, because he remembered that most likely, his brother Alistair had been somehow _conceived_ in the Deep Roads and there was just something horribly, horribly wrong and extraordinarily funny about that. Mostly wrong. But yes, a little funny. Especially when standing here in the Deep Roads. Líadan heard the choked noise he made and looked curiously in his direction. He gave her a short shake of his head, telling her that he wouldn’t explain. But she would have nothing of it and walked over to stand next to him as the rest of the Wardens puzzled over the dwarven runes. 

“What are you laughing about?” she whispered when she got close. Her shoulder pressed against his arm, and her head leaned in close to his to keep the conversation between just the two of them. But he didn’t care what the reason for it was and, instead, reveled in the closeness. Because that was _obviously_ something he should be thinking about in the Deep Roads. He decided he’d have to blame his natural parents for that.

“Remember back at Weisshaupt, when they told us about when the Wardens first encountered the Architect?” At this angle, her head was tucked just under his chin, and he barely stopped himself from leaning further over and doing something entirely inappropriate to the situation, seeing as they were in the _Deep Roads_. Andraste save him, was he possessed or something? 

She pursed her lips in a delightful way as she tried to figure out what he was going on about. “Yes, but I don’t recall it being this amusing. Or amusing at all, really.”

“I wasn’t laughing at the Architect. I was laughing at... other things that may have happened.” He glanced pointedly in Alistair’s direction.

Líadan followed his look, and then raised her eyebrows when she caught on. “You’re thinking about that _now_?”

“If you want me to explain the entire thought process that got me to that point, I can,” he replied, “but somehow I don’t think you want to hear it. Besides, imagine how Alistair would react if he knew. That’s what I’m laughing at.”

She attempted to frown up at Malcolm, but failed when her mouth rebelled and twitched into a smile. Covering the smile with her hand, she looked at Alistair again. The king, feeling the two looks on him, slowly turned around and faced them. “What? What is it?” he asked. “Have I got something on my face?”

“No, you’re fine,” Malcolm answered. 

Alistair narrowed his eyes. “Then what are you two up to?”

Malcolm and Líadan exchanged amused looks, neither of them willing to admit to Alistair exactly what they had been discussing. Malcolm valiantly fought the laugh threatening to burst out, eventually giving up on trying to maintain innocent eye contact with his brother and instead taking up an intensive study of the ceiling. He couldn’t exactly tell Alistair what they were laughing about right now, anyway, not in this company. Maybe later, further into the Deep Roads, he could whisper it to him just to see his reaction. It was either focus on the amusing or collapse into a blubbering mess while mired in the horrors of this particular place.

“That innocent act? I’m not buying it. I’m on to you, now,” Alistair said, pointing at each of them. 

“It’s nothing,” Líadan said. “Really.”

“I don’t believe you,” Alistair replied. “Really.”

Before Líadan could answer, Oghren kicked the bottom of the signpost, making everyone jump. “Bleeding weathering, I can’t read any of the runes. Nothing. The sign is useless.” He turned to look at Malcolm. “So what do you want to do? We’ve got an entrance to the Deep Roads, but I can’t sense any darkspawn, not quite, and Stone knows what these roads link up to. Any dwarves, surfacers or not, are going to want to know where the nearest darkspawn nest is before they do any work, especially anything extended like the sealing doors.”

“I figured we’d have to go exploring beyond the entrance once we found it,” Malcolm said, stepping over to the sign and tracing over the faint, useless impressions of runes. Then he looked to the right split and the left. “Thing is... which way do we go?”

“Flip a coin?” Alistair suggested.

“Or flip a dwarf,” said Anders.

“Hey, I said no dwarf-tossing!”

Anders spun his stave in place and grinned over at Oghren. “But this wouldn’t be tossing, it’d be flipping.”

The dwarf crossed his arms. “Bah. You can’t fool Oghren. It’s called a coin _toss_ for a reason.”

“Huh,” said Nathaniel. “You must be more sober than usual to have caught on that quickly.”

“Pacing myself,” said the dwarf.

Malcolm looked back and forth between the two passages again, reaching out to see if he could sense any darkspawn. But nothing new came back. It was almost like if there were any here, they were deliberately staying at the very edges of where they could be sensed by the Grey Wardens. Scowling, Malcolm picked a coin out of his purse. “Heads, right, tails, left.” He tossed the coin into the air, glittering in the light cast by the staves as it slowly spun in midair. It fell to the ground and clinked on the paving stones before coming to a rest.

“Tails,” Oghren declared, and then picked up the coin and pocketed it.

Though he rolled his eyes a bit, Malcolm didn’t bother arguing. He’d win it back from the dwarf at some point or another. “Left it is.” Nathaniel and Velanna once again took the lead, the rest of the Wardens following in a clump behind them. As they continued on a proper Deep Road, Malcolm wished they were back in the plain tunnel from before. There was something about the Deep Roads that was ultimately disturbing to him and every time he descended into the dwarven byways, he immediately wanted to go running and screaming back out of them. His eyes roved over the smoothly carved walls and finely cut paving stones and it struck him why he felt so deeply troubled in this place—he was walking in his own grave. This place was where he’d meet his end, as every Grey Warden who didn’t die in battle would. Each time they visited outside of their Calling, they were paying respects to the place of their death. He shivered. The sooner they were out of there, the better, and the better to never return. Except they still had Kal’Hirol to investigate and Maker knew what else afterward. It seemed the Grey Wardens and the Deep Roads were inextricably entwined, even before death. Funny how they never mentioned _that_ bit while recruiting. He decided that if they didn’t find any darkspawn after a couple more hours, they’d return to the surface. If need be, they could send soldiers and Wardens with the surface dwarves when they went to repair the doors. They probably should, anyway, if they could spare the Wardens. Depended on what they had planned for when they explored Kal’Hirol.

“Cave-in ahead,” said Nathaniel. “Tunnel next to it though, a rather large one.”

The short, wide tunnel connected to a cavernous room hollowed out deep within the mountain. Judging by the amount of footprints left in the dirt, it’d been used as some sort of staging area for a large amount of troops not long ago. The taint was stronger here. Still not indicative of darkspawn presence, but like on the surface where a large amount of darkspawn had been, it was ever-present. The floor of the room was far below where the tunnel ended, and rickety stairs had been built from crudely cut wood. The construction was familiar, as they’d seen similar handiwork when they’d returned to Ostagar.

“Did you hear that?” Velanna asked.

“No,” said Nathaniel.

“Maybe,” Líadan said, moving up to stand next to the other elf. “Like a scratching sound.”

Frowning, Malcolm walked up to stand with them as well, Anders and Oghren not far behind. He still didn’t hear anything, but he knew well enough that elves had better hearing.

Velanna squinted into the darkness that the light hadn’t been able to reach. “I think I saw something move over there.”

“I don’t sense any darkspawn,” said Alistair, peering where Velanna was.

She raised her staff and bolted down the stairs. Alarmed, the others drew weapons and followed. Nathaniel skidded to a stop just before reaching the middle of the cavern. “Stop! Nobody move. Everyone just—”

“Why should I listen to you?” Velanna asked, crossing the middle of the room as she advanced towards a doorway revealed by the light from her staff. 

“Because you’re going to—” Nathaniel’s warning fell short as a snick sounded through the cavern, followed by a hiss and an acrid smell. “...trigger a trap,” he finished.

“Run!” Malcolm shouted, but even as he turned to do so, he knew it wouldn’t be happening for any of them. He pitched forward, barely able to bring up his arms in time to break his fall to the stone floor. Muttered curses to the Maker and Creators followed by thuds and clanging of weapons on stone told him the others had suffered the same fate. His vision clouded as darkness wormed its way in and the sounds around him became muffled. Somewhere beyond the edge of his sight he heard the guttural laughter of darkspawn. Then the taint tugged within him, the tug of hundreds and how had he not felt them before?

An unfamiliar voice spoke in a smooth, yet strange rhythm and called off the darkspawn. Then it was closer, almost overhead, but Malcolm couldn’t see anything or move and the voice was telling him to sleep. He thought of the sloth demon they’d come across in the Circle Tower during the Blight and hoped it wasn’t another. The first had been hard enough to break free of and he didn’t think they could get that lucky a second time. Especially without Wynne, as she had been the one to break them out of it before.

He slept uneasily, waking up—or so it seemed—when his body was rolled, and then picked up and carried. Harsh breathing rattled in chests near his ears and a fetid aroma wafted into his nose. The taint’s burn was almost overwhelming, as if he were surrounded by the darkspawn. But if he was, he’d be dead by now. His eyes refused to open every time he tried to find out where he was and what carried him. Ghouls, maybe? Had they stumbled into some strange colony of ghouls? He tried to open his eyes again and was rewarded with long blinks, allowing him to see dark shapes, shadows on stone walls—

“Sleep,” the voice told him again.

His mind refused, but his body obeyed, the taint practically singing within him. And he slept.

It was the same voice that woke him up an indeterminate amount of time later. “So you are Malcolm, second in command of the Grey Wardens.” Malcolm’s eyes fluttered between open and shut and he could see the shadow of a distorted face above him. The head turned to address someone else in the room. “Yes, Utha, I know he looks familiar.” Then the face was studying Malcolm once again and he wished he could see clearly instead of the haze of shadows. “Do not be frightened. I apologize for what I must do. I do not wish to be your enemy. But now is not the time for this. Rest.” Cold hands worked at his left arm and Malcolm barely had time realize that his gauntlet was gone before he was out once more.

When he came to again, the first thing he heard was dripping water. Malcolm felt something foreign wrapped around his wrists, heavy and cold. He slowly forced his eyes open, his head groggy and vision fuzzy. His arms were stretched out in front of him and iron bands wrapped around his wrists. Shackles. A twitch of his legs told him that it was the same for them. More iron shackles. Right now, shackles seem to be overkill, because he could barely move his head, much less anything else. Just beyond his arms, he saw the dripping water that had woken him. It seeped in from a crack on the ceiling to land in a shallow puddle on the stone floor. He stared at it, watching each drop land, as if it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

It took him a while to realize that if he thought the dripping water was that entertaining, that he must be drugged. By that time, some of his strength had returned, the effects of whatever spell or drug or potion the creature had used on him was fading. It still took him three tries and several curses to push himself to his feet. The chains between the shackles weren’t short, but were just short enough to make walking difficult, and he found he could do little more than shuffle. 

He was in some sort of study or laboratory, judging by the desk and table having various papers and flasks spread out on them. But finding this sort of thing in the _Deep Roads_? Not to mention that the taint crawled over everything, including what looked like a bed in the far corner of the room, was markedly strange. Did darkspawn even need sleep? If they did sleep, did they go to the Fade? He suspected the archdemon did, when there was one, since the Wardens all dreamed of him pretty much whenever they slept during a Blight. Near the desk was a statue he recognized as a depiction of one of the ancient elven gods. He’d seen it, or one like it, before in the ruins near where they’d found Líadan. Right next to that was a small, wooden toy horse. Malcolm stared at it, at how very out of place it was, vastly more so than even the elven god statue. A darkspawn playing with a _toy_? It was an even more absurd image than of a darkspawn tucked safely into bed for a comfortable night’s rest. He went to comment on the thought out loud, and then remembered that he was alone.

Panic flared though him. He wondered where the others were, if they were dead or a prisoner like he was. Alistair, he’d stupidly agreed to letting Alistair accompany them when he should’ve forced him to go back to Highever or at the very least wait at the camp in the foothills. Instead, he’d let him come along on this trip and now he could’ve lost the king of Ferelden. And stuck here in these shackles there was nothing he could do to go and find him, much less try to rescue him or the others. Maker, the others. Were they locked up like him? Or were they already dead? Or in the case of Velanna and Líadan were they... if they were truly prisoners of the darkspawn, what would be done to them, as women? 

Malcolm looked around the room again, fighting the tightening panic, searching for a way to break the chains between the shackles. He had to get his brother out and the other Wardens and he couldn’t let Líadan... “ _First day, they come and catch everyone._ ” Hespith’s little chant, the one that had haunted them as they trooped toward the broodmother in the Deep Roads. The promise he’d once given to Morrigan, and then later to Líadan and Leliana and Wynne about not letting that fate befall them. He had to escape, that much was stupidly obvious and he really needed to stop standing around and staring at dripping water that ultimately meant nothing. There had to be something that could help him break these stupid chains. Or maybe there was a key laying about because darkspawn weren’t supposed to be smart.

Or have toy horses. For some reason, that toy was the creepiest thing out of everything in the room.

But, at least he was still dressed. Even his gauntlet was back on after whatever it was they’d done to his arm. Though he wondered what it was, he didn’t have time to investigate. He could stand, he could think, and he needed to figure his way out of here. Except he could barely walk because of the stupid chains and every time he tried to take a step, he almost tripped, and within minutes he’d worked himself into a temper. Not very conducive to critical thinking, but it did make him more alert.

The single locked door scraped open and he spun to face it. A dwarven ghoul clad in earthen-colored robes of some sort walked in, looking, of all things, slightly amused. He saw the difference in her immediately—she was a ghoul as Seranni had been, and not like the addled Ruck from the Deep Roads. This woman was in possession of most of her faculties if that faintly wry expression on her face was any indication. “Who are you?” he asked.

Her hands made several fluttering signals toward him, but he didn’t know how to interpret them. He’d read about languages like it, and how dwarves who became Silent Sisters used that language since they cut their tongues out. Perhaps this woman had been one before she became whatever it was that she was now. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re saying,” he said. “You aren’t going to let me go, are you?”

She shook her head slowly. No.

He sighed and rolled his eyes. Right. Ghouls who had most of their intellect still available to them, and yet wouldn’t help non-ghouls escape from whoever it was holding them. Malcolm had a strong suspicion that it was the Architect holding them. From what they’d been told at Weisshaupt, the Architect was really the only darkspawn that bothered to take prisoners in the first place, aside from the only reason darkspawn took female prisoners. And if they were truly in the clutches of the Architect, that meant this dwarf was... “Utha?”

A nod, a twitch of a smile, seemingly even more disturbing on a face so corrupted by the taint. And yet, weirdly reassuring. Somewhere in there was an actual dwarf. An actual dwarf who’d been a Grey Warden and still sided with the Architect and the darkspawn. Anger surged upward and he forced it down. He couldn’t just start yelling at her for the side she’d chosen even as much as he wanted to. It didn’t seem fair, though, that Utha was still be alive while Duncan and almost every other person who’d gone into the Deep Roads with their original party was now dead. Aside from Utha—and he wasn’t even sure she quite qualified as ‘alive’—only Fiona remained living from that original expedition to the Deep Roads. He fought a rueful smile and wondered if Utha even knew who he was. “Where are the others?”

Another flurry of signs, followed by a shrug of an apology. 

Malcolm realized he needed to use more direct questions if he was going to understand anything this dwarf was trying to tell him. “Is my brother alive? He’s the one that looks like... well, you can tell that we’re brothers.” Probably wouldn’t be the best idea to tell her who they were. She’d be able to tell they were Grey Wardens, though.

A nod.

He let go a sigh of relief.

“They are all still alive,” said another voice, the one Malcolm had heard when he’d been barely conscious. “They are safe, for now.” Then the owner of the voice appeared in the doorway, a tall, lanky creature. A darkspawn emissary, the magic rolling off him in waves, possessing a face more human than any hurlock Malcolm had ever seen. For some reason, the darkspawn had taken to wearing a mask over his eyes, as if covering some sort of deformity. The creature passed Utha and came to a stop. “I am the Architect.”

Malcolm had no idea what to say. It wasn’t like he could just use good manners and spout off something like ‘nice to meet you’ or anything like that. The creature already seemed to know his name and position in the Grey Warden ranks. So, instead of replying, he simply stared.

“I am afraid that I must ask for your help,” said the Architect.

In his shock, he found his voice. “You what?”

The Architect continued to regard Malcolm with his eerily impassive look. “Your help. You see, one of my most flawed creations is gathering an army, one that I cannot combat at this time. I need you and the Grey Wardens to stop it.”

The chains binding the two shackles together on Malcolm’s wrists rattled as he went to rub his forehead. He stopped short and scowled at the chains. “If it’s Grey Warden help you want, you really suck at asking. Knocking us out,” he said, and looked pointedly at his arm, “experimenting on us, and keeping us prisoner really isn’t going to put you in our good graces. And why would we want to help you clean up a mess _you_ made?”

“I have come to understand you seek the same goal as I do in stopping the Mother.”

Malcolm’s forthcoming reply that he really should just be trying to kill the Architect out of hand slipped from his mind as a memory slid in to replace it. That strange talking darkspawn outside of Highever Castle, asking about Morrigan on behalf of the Mother. The Architect standing in front of him now, quietly waiting for his response, had also been wondering about Morrigan, as his own emissary had asked the same. At least that explained the Father bit, if that’s what the Mother—whatever she was—saw this darkspawn as. “What is this Mother, exactly?” He’d get to Morrigan in a bit, once he figured out the rest, if it could even be figured out.

The Architect flinched slightly at the question, the first outward reaction he’d had since Malcolm had met him. “My most flawed creation. Freedom drove her mad—”

“Freedom?”

“Freedom from the call of the Old Gods. Once I have freed them, the darkspawn think for themselves. They speak, they act. Some, however, have reacted poorly. They are flawed and they rage against me. The Mother gathers them to stop me and to search for herself.”

“You mean searching for Morrigan.”

“The witch, yes. The one who holds Urthemiel’s soul that will soon be reborn. That he escaped was my mistake. I found him some time ago, you see, but I did not wish another Blight. I attempted to free him as I had my brethren. My hope was that this would free all darkspawn, unravel the curse from its source. Alas, I was unlucky.”

“ _You_ were unlucky?” Malcolm stood absolutely still, astonished at what the Architect had really just told him. That he had started the Blight. That it was his fault for everything that’d happened in the past year and a half, that it was his fault all those people had died, that all that land had been ravaged, all those lives ruined. “You started a sodding _Blight_!” Then Malcolm lunged forward, heedless of being unarmed and chained, intent on doing whatever damage he could to this creature, this _thing_ that had started the Fifth Blight. Colorful curses he’d learned from keeping company with Oghren poured from his mouth as he tried to wrap his fingers around the emissary’s throat. Something heavy landed on his back, followed by something colliding with the back of his head, and Malcolm dropped to the floor.

“Yes, she did have much the same temper,” the Architect said to Utha. Then a sigh. “Perhaps I should have killed Urthemiel as it slept. Yes. Yes, I know I had to try. But now we risk yet another Blight if we cannot reach the witch first. No, we will not attempt that another time. We will try something else. We must not give up.”

Malcolm blearily looked around for the dwarf. She must’ve been the one to knock him down and somehow had paralyzed him, because he couldn’t move anything but his head. He hadn’t felt any magic being used, so it couldn’t be a paralysis spell. Idly, he wondered if there was anyone in Orzammar that could possibly teach outsiders how Utha fought like that with only her bare hands. The woman’s fists were like stone in themselves, as deadly and useful a weapon as any blade. 

“I also need something else from you and your companions,” the Architect said, turning to gaze at Malcolm once more. “To free my brethren of their compulsion to find the Old Gods, I need Grey Warden blood.”

Before Malcolm could object, the Architect moved a hand and magic snapped in the air, settling a paralysis spell on him. All Malcolm could do now was lay there and listen. He was helpless to defend himself or his friends.

“Please excuse the precautions I am taking with you now. I do not wish for you to hurt yourself and you have proven to be volatile.” The Architect’s eyes shifted away again. “Yes, Utha, like his mother. I know.” As Malcolm tried to comprehend that the Architect and the ghoul knew about his parentage, the emissary returned his look to him again. “In order to become what you are, you drink the blood of my kind. To transform. Similarly, _we_ must transform. I have created a version of your Joining that uses the blood of the Grey Wardens. You take the taint into yourself. What we take is your resistance. That is how my brethren are freed. In your blood lies the key to their immunity against the call of the Old Gods.” The Architect sighed almost regretfully. “It is unfortunate that I require so much Grey Warden blood. It may end in the deaths of some of your companions. For this, I apologize.”

A strangled noise came out of Malcolm’s throat.

“I hope this will not cause you to decide against helping me against the Mother,” the Architect continued, ignoring Malcolm’s attempts at protest. “But you must understand, it would only be a few of your own brethren that will die. Hundreds of thousands of my kind are killed before each Blight is ended. It is a plague on our race. We do not begin a Blight because we crave power or destruction. We obey the call of the Old Gods—without choice. And we must stop the Mother from getting to the witch and Urthemiel. If they reach her and the Old God, they will taint them, and a Blight will start anew, and many more will die. Both your brethren and mine.”

Malcolm’s body went rigid as he struggled against the paralysis and tried to obey the overwhelming urge to escape. This _thing_ was going to kill his fellow Wardens. His friends. His brother. _Líadan_. He couldn’t let that happen.

The Architect paid no heed to Malcolm’s plight. “But you need not make that choice now. There are things I must study about you before we hunt the Mother. You must rest now.” Another flutter of magic. “Rest.” 

He heard nothing more.


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38**

“For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.

As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,

She should see fire and go towards Light.

The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,

And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker

Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.”

— _Canticle of Transfigurations 10_

**Malcolm**

Something hard digging into his side woke him up. Feeling his wrists unencumbered, he reacted instinctively, summoning a smite before he even finished opening his eyes. He let the smite loose as they opened, hitting anything that was close enough to his body to prod him. Then he got to his feet, vision still blurred from sleep and the smite, and tackled the vaguely person-shaped thing nearby. His vision cleared as the ringing in his ears stopped, and he found himself looking down at someone who was most certainly _not_ the Architect or Utha.

“That’s it, I’m never rescuing you again,” Líadan said from underneath him.

Malcolm stared at her dumbly, astonished that she somehow had gotten into the room that held him. “You are... not a darkspawn.”

She smirked, her eyes showing both relief and amusement. “Took you that long to catch on, did it? Now let me up, or I’ll use this dagger to cut off things you’d probably like to keep.”

Then he noticed that while he’d managed to smite her, tackle her, and knock away her staff, she had still been able to draw her dagger, which she now held to his side. Before she could make good on her threat, he jumped up and back then helped her to her feet. “Sorry,” he said, looking her over as she dusted herself off. He couldn’t see any major injuries and her armor covered any minor injuries she might’ve had. A lopsided smile spread across his face. She was alive and not dead and most definitely not a broodmother.

“Yes, well,” she started, and then paused. “Quit looking at me like that. You just hit me with a smite, you know. You’re lucky that I can fight without my magic or this mess would be even worse than it is.” She sighed. “Still, I should’ve known better than to undo the manacles before waking you up. Smite first, ask questions later. I guess you had to learn that lesson at some point. Just don’t see why it had to be _me_ you used it on for the first time, what with all the darkspawn around.” He’d kept staring at her as she talked, letting her words wash over him. She frowned and poked him in the arm. “Seriously, knock it off. You’re acting weird.”

He finally blinked, now convinced that if he did so, she wouldn’t disappear in the split-second when his eyes were closed. He was also starting to wonder if perhaps he had hit his head after all. “Sorry, I just... sorry.” He cleared his throat. “How did you get in here?”

“Through the door.” She motioned towards the now open doorway for emphasis. When he frowned at her, she grinned. “We were all being held in cells, but we got released by this human ghoul that was as normal sounding as Seranni was. I think it was Ser Ava, judging by the armor she was wearing, but she ran away before we could ask. I chased her and she led me here. I stopped when I saw you and she got away when I stayed here instead of chasing her. And instead of going after her, I freed you. And got a smite in the face for it. Thanks for that. Really.”

“Um... you’re welcome?” 

Líadan rolled her eyes. “Just remember. You owe me.” Then she picked up her staff from where it’d landed and spun it in her hands. “At least my staff is okay. Your weapons are outside. The ghoul led me to our weapons and packs, too. How strange is that?”

He wasn’t sure if he liked owing her or not, but he didn’t have much choice in the matter. “Very.” Malcolm aimed a well-placed kick at the discarded shackles, sending them clinking into a far corner. “Did you happen to meet our captor? I did. He has a sparkling personality, that Architect guy. Oh, and, it’s his fault that the last Blight started.” Malcolm started gathering up whatever scraps of paper and notes and journals he could. He needed as much information as they could get and he needed to deprive the Architect of said information, as well.

“And you didn’t kill him?” Líadan caught on to Malcolm’s idea and started picking up papers from the desk. 

“I was paralyzed at the time. Well, I wasn’t when I tried to kill him, but then the dwarf ghoul jumped me and knocked me down and he cast a paralysis spell.” Once Oghren found out that a dwarf had taken him down bare-handed, he’d never hear the end of it.

“Why didn’t you smite him first?”

He held up his wrists. “Shackled, remember? Can’t move my hands far enough apart.”

“Yes. I knew that.” Finished searching the desk, she looked over at Malcolm. “Did he do anything else to you? We never saw him, not really. Just when he wandered by once with that dwarf you were talking about.”

He frowned. “I don’t know. I think he took some of my blood but I don’t know how to tell even if I stripped down to check for marks on my skin. He wanted to...” he trailed off, not really wanting to get into details right then. Or ever, if he had his preference. “I’ll tell everyone later. We need to get out of here. There’s a lot of darkspawn around outside whatever place this is. He was covering them up somehow before. And now it’s like they’re pressing in from everywhere.” His eyes swept over the room one last time and he indicated the statue. “Do you know what god that is?”

“It’s Falon’Din, the elven god of death and fortune,” she said, after following his gaze. Then her brow furrowed in confusion. “Why would a darkspawn have a statue of Falon’Din?”

“The elven god of _death_?” he repeated. “That’s unsettling. And a bad sign.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. He guides the dead to the Beyond, what you humans call the Fade. At least, he used to, until the gods were imprisoned. But now is not the time for a theology lesson.” Her eyes flicked uneasily in the statue’s direction. “Okay, I’ll admit, it’s kind of unsettling. Let’s go get the others and get out of here. This whole place gives me the creeps. More than the normal Deep Roads, even.”

They passed through another room where Líadan said their weapons and supplies had been stored. Malcolm grabbed his belongings, sliding his pack onto his back, slinging his shield on his arm, and hefting his sword. Immediately as his fingers closed around the leather-wrapped grip, he felt somewhat better. The rest of the Wardens were in the next room, standing with their weapons at the ready as Malcolm and Líadan opened the door.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Oghren, the head of his axe drooping in disappointment.

“You know, the king is supposed to get better accommodations,” Alistair said. “Though I suppose the darkspawn might not know about that sort of thing.”

“The king shouldn’t even be here right now,” Malcolm replied, doing his best to look annoyed even though he was relieved and very glad to see his brother. “Eamon is going to kill me.”

Alistair grimaced. “Well, if he wasn’t before, once he hears about this little escapade he certainly will. And he’ll kill me straight after.”

“I think I’m starting to gain a little sympathy for Loghain,” said Líadan.

The king’s head snapped around to look in askance at the elf. “Did I hear that right?”

Malcolm realized what Líadan was referring to and found himself agreeing. “There’s a story behind that,” he said to Alistair. “We learned about it at Weisshaupt. We’ll have to tell you it later, of course, but you’ll understand when we do. I also happen to agree with her.” He also should’ve remembered the story earlier, _before_ his brother managed to convince him that his coming along with them on this trip was a good idea. Because it wasn’t. It was a horrible idea and he was a complete idiot for going along with it. The fact that Loghain didn’t kill Maric after he pulled this same sort of stunt spoke volumes for how good of a friend Loghain was to the late king. If they did make it back alive, Eamon really might resign, and Malcolm wouldn’t blame him if he did. 

“I’ll hold you to that,” said Alistair.

Malcolm looked at the rest of the Wardens. “Is everyone okay? No injuries or anything?” He got nods in reply, noting that Nathaniel was still glaring darkly at Velanna for triggering the trap, while the Dalish elf pretended not to notice. But even Malcolm could see the hurt look in her eyes when she thought no one could see her. As much as Nathaniel blamed her for it, she felt responsible, judging by the look in her eyes and the set of her shoulders. He’d have to talk to them all about that later, once they were out of the Deep Roads and safe. If it was anyone’s fault, it was his own for not ordering everyone to walk ahead carefully instead of running headlong into the unknown. Just like with letting Alistair accompany them, he _knew_ better, and yet he hadn’t acted better. He hoped Riordan wasn’t planning on taking his Calling anytime soon, because Malcolm was fairly certain he wasn’t fit to be the commander yet. Or even at all.

Alistair frowned. “The darkspawn are getting closer. And I would love to know how that thing kept hidden from us.”

“That thing was actually the Architect,” said Malcolm. “And I’d love to know, too. However, I’d like to get out of here even more. Let’s go.” The group plunged out the door and into a wide tunnel. It wasn’t of dwarven make, just another rough tunnel carved directly out of the rock. Soon enough, they came to another intersection. Since the left they’d taken the last time had turned out badly, Malcolm had the group go right. 

They’d only gone a short way before they found themselves staring warily into a room with a flock of dragonlings and a couple roaming drakes. “Are those actual dragon eggs?” Alistair whispered. “I think they are. That’s bad. Very bad.”

“If they’ve got dragonlings and dragon eggs, I’d like to know where the high dragon is since you need one of those for the other two,” said Malcolm.

Alistair pulled a face. “I’m not sure I’d really like to know. I doubt we’d get lucky enough to have another high dragon decide to take a nap rather than eat us again.”

“Again?” said Anders. “Andraste’s frilly bottom, you mean this sort of thing is normal for Grey Wardens?”

“Normal for us,” replied Alistair. “Not sure about the Wardens in general, though.”

“Didn’t Fiona fight a high dragon once?” Líadan asked.

Malcolm nodded. “In the Deep Roads somewhere, with Duncan and the Wardens they were with at the time, yeah.”

Alistair looked from Malcolm to Líadan and back again. “This has something to do with that story you’re supposed to tell me, doesn’t it? Duncan and Fiona fought a high dragon once and you knew and you never told me? Really? You’ve been holding out on me. That makes me very sad, you know.”

“We’ve been preoccupied,” said Líadan.

“ _I’ll_ say,” said Anders. 

Líadan whacked him on the arm. “I was referring to the talking darkspawn. And Morrigan and the templars and the Tevinters. Not to whatever it is you were referring to.”

“I think we should be preoccupied by not getting caught standing out here by the drakes,” said Nathaniel, casting an uneasy look between the room filled with draconic beasts and the Wardens in the tunnel outside. “Or the darkspawn that will be on us soon. Or this Architect person whenever he figures out that we’ve escaped. I could go on, if you’d like.”

“Okay, point taken,” said Malcolm. “Though I’m still concerned about the high dragon. If there’s really one up here, she could go on a rampage and that would turn out very badly for Highever. The kind of badly that ends with things on fire and people dying.” But there was nothing they could do now, so he turned and started back towards the intersection. While the darkspawn hadn’t gotten much closer, they hadn’t retreated, either. Like they were waiting for them to emerge from somewhere, which they probably were, Malcolm decided.

Just before they got back to the intersection, they rounded a corner and promptly came face to face with another ghoul. This one was—or had been—human and wore what Líadan had correctly identified earlier as templar armor. Malcolm halted, as did the other Wardens behind him. “Ser Ava?”

A ghost of a smile passed across her tainted lips. “You escaped,” she said, in a voice at once weary and clear. “Good. Now you must let me. You must help me. End it, please, Wardens.”

“You are the one who helped Rósín?” Velanna asked, moving to stand beside Líadan.

Ser Ava shifted her milky-eyed gaze to the elf. “Yes. Such a beautiful child. She... she didn’t deserve what would have happened. I didn’t want to... I didn’t want to kill a child, but...” Her eyes lost focus, again witnessing the horrors that had to be forever seared into her memory. “There are things worse than death. I did not wish that on her.”

“No one would, the poor little nuglet,” said Oghren. “You did good, templar.”

“I only hope the Maker knows my heart and judges me worthy of His pride,” said Ser Ava. “Or only sorrow will fill all the days of my death.”

Malcolm saw Velanna tap Líadan on the arm and make some sort of silent request. Líadan carefully passed her dagger over to the other Dalish elf, who held it behind her back. “ _Ma serannas_ , human,” Velanna said quietly as she approached Ser Ava. She placed an approving hand on the templar’s shoulder and looked her in the eyes. “Thank you.” Then the other hand flew up and buried the dagger in the ghoul’s neck. Velanna caught Ser Ava’s body as it went slack and bore it gently to the ground. 

Behind him, Malcolm heard Anders curse.

“It was the only way,” Nathaniel told the healer.

“I realize that, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Anders replied.

“She is dead,” said Velanna, looking up from where she knelt on the ground. “You humans, how do you deal with your dead?”

“Usually we have a pyre,” Malcolm replied.

“Why do you do this?” Velanna’s question held no accusation, only curiosity.

“Because Andraste’s body was burned,” Alistair answered, his years in the Chantry and its education coming to the forefront. “And while her body was burned, we believe that her spirit ascended to stand by the throne of the Maker, and that so too will the spirits of her followers.”

“It also helps in keeping bodies from being possessed by pesky demons,” added Anders. “Quite practical, really, between that and the whole problem when a body is tainted. That Andraste, always thinking ahead. Smart _and_ a looker. No wonder she’s got an entire religion based around her life.”

“I can’t figure out if that was blasphemy or not,” said Nathaniel.

Anders smirked at him. “Best not to think about it.”

Velanna frowned at the two of them, and then turned to Malcolm. “This templar... Ser Ava. She would want that?”

“Yes.” Malcolm discovered that he couldn’t say anything else, because Velanna’s reaction to Ser Ava had pretty much rendered him speechless. She was actually expressing respect for this templar, a human, and voicing this respect to other humans. It seemed that change for Velanna was not so far out of the question as he’d once believed. And perhaps, Malcolm silently admitted, Riordan’s decision had been a good one, provided this current trend of Velanna’s continued.

She nodded, leaving no question as to her possibly changing her mind. “Then we will do this for her. She is deserving of a proper funeral.”

Alistair shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Not that I don’t agree, but there isn’t much wood just sitting around down here, and it could take a while to burn the body even if we found some.”

“Good thing you’ve got three mages, then,” said Anders, walking over to where Velanna stood, Líadan right behind him. “It will go pretty quickly and there isn’t a need for wood.” Then the healer knelt down next to the dead templar and passed a hand over her open eyes, closing them. 

Velanna removed the dagger, wiped it off, and handed it back to Líadan. There was a pause and something went unspoken between the three mages, and then they all simultaneously stood up, stepped away, and lit the corpse on fire. They kept three constant streams of flame on the body until it was reduced to ash.

“Unshaken by the darkness of the world, she shall know true peace,” said Alistair, quoting from the Canticle of Transfigurations. It seemed that today his Chantry education was being put to good use.

Malcolm hoped that farewell would come true for the templar. She had risked much for the child, even when she’d resorted to killing her to keep her away from the darkspawn. He recognized the sacrifice the woman had made of her morality, for she had set aside a personal rule of harming a child to recognize and carry out what must be done to save the child from greater harm. She had done that, even though it had come at great cost to herself, both in body and in mind. But now, Malcolm prayed, Ser Ava would find her peace with the Maker and Andraste.

“O Falon’Din,” Velanna said, “ _Lethanavir_ , Friend of the Dead, guide her feet, calm her soul, lead her to her rest.” After another silent moment went by, she rose to her feet and looked expectantly at the others. “Let us be on our way before the darkspawn find us.” Then she turned and started for the intersection without waiting for the rest of them.

Malcolm shot a questioning look at Líadan, who offered him only a shrug in return. Alistair, Oghren, Nathaniel, and Anders trooped by her as she remained and stared at the ashes. Malcolm stepped carefully by pile, not wishing to disturb them from the tunnel floor. Líadan placed a hand on his arm as he went by and left it there as she fell into step next to him. “I don’t think you should bring what happened with her _ever_ after this,” she said, pitching her voice so that only he could hear her. Then she returned her hand to her side.

He missed its light, reassuring pressure, but didn’t reach for her hand or arm. Now was far from the time, as apparently it always would be. “I know,” he replied. “I’ve no plans to mention what happened to her ever again. I don’t have a death wish. Not anymore, anyway.” When Líadan lifted an eyebrow in his direction, he gave her a smile. “What? You thought you were the only Grey Warden who got conscripted and had a veritable death wish? Think again. Once I got over it, the position was empty, so we had to go bumbling around searching for some other poor sod to conscript. And lo and behold, we found you. Fancy that.”

She rolled her eyes. “I am seriously not rescuing you ever again. Mark my words, human. That was the last time.” But the smile intermittently tugging at the corner of her mouth told Malcolm otherwise. She’d save him, just as he’d do the same for her, were their positions reversed.

They took a left this time at the intersection, the roughly carved tunnel slowly changing into a proper corridor. Worn carvings and decorations hinted at both elven and Tevinter influence, as both Líadan and Alistair noted aloud to the others. Malcolm was even more strongly reminded of the ruins they’d had to go into to destroy the mirror in the Brecilian Forest and wondered if there would be something similar around this place. After all, there had to be more than one in existence, and it stood to reason that they’d find another one in similar surroundings. The corridor ended in front of a set of ancient double doors made of a metal Oghren and none of the other Wardens could identify. Undaunted, Nathaniel tested the handle. “Unlocked,” he said. “Shall we go through?”

“We have to, if we want to get out of here,” Malcolm replied.

Nathaniel shouldered one of the doors open and the group walked into a large, rectangular room. Tall pillars shot up in arcades along the sides, supporting a ceiling they could barely make out from down on the tiled mosaic floor. The architecture in the room was even more strongly Tevinter and elven here, dragon motifs carved in reliefs on the walls, inscriptions written in Arcanum and what Malcolm assumed to be Elvish. The far wall held another set of double doors. Had he not known he was near or in the Deep Roads, Malcolm would’ve assumed he was standing in a cathedral.

Anders pointed at one of the inscriptions in a panel just below a balcony. “Is that Elvish?”

“Ancient Elvish,” Velanna replied, moving closer and tracing a long finger over it. She frowned, turned, and motioned Líadan over. “I want to see if you’re reading the same thing.”

After casting the other Dalish elf a dubious look, Líadan bent and read the inscription. “This mentions the Ethliel,” Líadan said, straightening in surprise. “I thought that was a myth.”

Malcolm started to ask what the myth was when he was interrupted.

“Ethliel is no myth,” came the voice of the Architect from the balcony.

Nathaniel’s bow creaked as he drew a nocked arrow to his cheek. Malcolm held up one of his hands to keep the other man from killing the darkspawn too soon. Then he stepped back and looked up at the Architect. Utha stood just behind the robed emissary, arms folded across her chest and her mouth drawn into a frown. Both Velanna and Líadan had their staffs out and crackling with magic, aimed upward at the two newcomers, and the same magic crackled behind Malcolm as Anders readied himself.

“What do you mean?” Líadan asked.

The Architect’s mouth twisted into a hideous imitation of a smile as he strode down the wide curve of stairs that descended from the balcony to the floor of the cavernous room. “Ethliel is the one who told me of Morrigan and how Urthemiel will be reborn. She is the one who informed me that Malcolm would know of her location and that the Grey Wardens would seek her out.” He stopped between the Wardens and the door they’d used to enter the room. Utha stood quietly at his side, glancing alternately between Malcolm and Alistair.

“That’s impossible,” said Velanna. “The Ethliel are a lost Dalish clan, not a person.”

Líadan frowned. “And a mythical clan that’s supposed to be the embodiment of peace, at that. They were said to worship the goddess Valoel, who was betrayed and turned her peace into vengeful sorrow. The clan turned from her in their grief at her giving up the way of peace and was lost. Definitely not a person.”

That answers that question, Malcolm thought. As he listened to Líadan’s explanation, he looked over at Utha, who he could’ve sworn _smirked_ at him. He narrowed his eyes, but her expression had returned to its former grimness. Maybe he’d imagined it. After all, ghouls weren’t like that, so human. Or dwarven, in this case.

“Ethliel is not a clan or a person, but a god,” said the Architect. “One who—” he stopped and looked around wildly.

The Wardens barely noticed as they did the same. The taint, which had been only a light presence before, suddenly clamored all around them, tugging and burning in their veins. The darkspawn they’d been feeling for hours were closing in swiftly and they wanted blood. 

Utha signed something rapidly at the Architect, who nodded. “Yes, Utha.” Then the creature returned his surreal gaze to the Wardens. “I am sorry, but I cannot control my brethren any longer. You must come with me. Now.”

“Sorry, can’t do that,” Malcolm said, and then exchanged a look with Alistair, confirming that they would smite the creature, and then run once they had the chance.

The Architect pressed his case. “You must help me defeat the Mother. She has poisoned the minds of the others. She has influence over the ones who have not been freed and she gathers them as an army. I do not seek to rule my brethren. I only seek to release them from their chains. Some have reacted poorly, even as they think and speak and act for themselves. They are flawed and they rage against me as the Mother does and she gathers them to stop me as she seeks to stop you... as she seeks to find Morrigan. I cannot defeat the Mother alone, and I cannot free the darkspawn unless she is defeated. Our goals are the same. Join me, Wardens.” The plea was almost heartfelt in its desperation. 

Malcolm wondered if it would have sounded more convincing if Utha, a ghoul that had one been a fellow Grey Warden, had said it. But it was an academic question at best, as Utha couldn’t speak and Malcolm refused to fall for the Architect’s arguments. Other Wardens had before and they’d been wrong. Bregan giving the Architect the locations of the Old Gods had directly led to the Blight that had just occurred. Malcolm would not be responsible for any further collusion with the darkspawn, talking or not. He glanced again at Alistair, and then the two of them hit the emissary with holy smites. A sound of angered outrage came from Utha’s mouth and the sign she made at Malcolm was quite clear in its meaning before she bent to check on the fallen Architect. 

But the darkspawn were coming, a vast crowd of them just outside the door behind the Architect and Utha, pounding on the metal in ominous thuds. There was no time to kill the Architect. There was barely time to flee. The Wardens turned and bolted out the opposite door, leaving the stricken Architect and angry Utha behind.

They ran down darkened tunnels and corridors, mindful of the darkspawn giving chase, the creatures having leapt over the Architect and the ghoul in their eagerness to reach the Wardens. When Anders tripped, Alistair caught him and helped him along. Líadan stubbed a toe and nearly went headlong into the stones, but Nathaniel grabbed the back of her armor and kept her from falling. Each intersection lost them precious seconds and Oghren admitted that his stone sense was being muddied by the response of the taint to sheer number of darkspawn after them. Their breathing turned to ragged gasps, mages and warriors alike, and Malcolm feared they’d never reach the surface.

Another right, another left, and the caverns seemed familiar and alien at the same time. Oghren started lagging behind and Velanna reached over and pulled him forward, casting a rejuvenation spell on him that Malcolm hadn’t even realized the elf had known or would even work that well on a dwarf. “Do not think too much on it, dwarf,” Velanna told the grinning Oghren. “Just because I do not wish to see you dead,” she paused to breathe in needed air, “does not mean I wish to get into your pants.”

“You say that now,” Oghren said after another gasping breath.

“And I will continue to say it,” Velanna replied, who then swatted him on the rear with her staff. “Run.”

Malcolm felt a short laugh tumbling out even as his lungs burned. The Wardens burst through another door and found themselves in a familiar room—the one with the rickety wooden stairs, where they’d gotten themselves trapped in the first place. They thundered up the staircase and into the tunnel beyond, the idea of freedom and light no longer just a vague concept. Líadan suddenly stopped, turned around, and fired a bolt at the tunnel’s ceiling. It trembled and cracked, and then rocks crashed downward as the ceiling collapsed, blocking off almost the entire entrance to the room.

Then she leaned over, bracing her hands on her knees, and sucked in great lungfuls of air. “That should slow them down,” she said after a few seconds. “I hope.”

Malcolm fell back, sheathed his sword, and offered her the flask of water he had. She took a few quick sips, looking as though she’d rather guzzle the entire thing, before handing it back to him. “That was a good idea,” he said.

She flashed him a quick smile. “I have those sometimes.”

He grabbed her hand and pulled her forward before reluctantly letting it go. “Come on. There’s still the other intersection, so there’s no telling how long it’ll take them to get around.”

“Such optimism,” she said, but broke into the same jog as the others.

There was no way they could’ve kept up the speed from before and Líadan’s actions had bought them precious time, Malcolm realized. He just wished she’d have told him of her plans before stopping like that without warning, and then making the ceiling collapse. It was more than a little unnerving, even in the face of being chased by a crowd of darkspawn. By the time they neared the first intersection, they’d slowed to a walk, not so much by choice as by necessity. 

Then the tug of the taint returned as they rounded the corner and they heard the darkspawn rushing down the corridor they hadn’t taken before. The Wardens picked up their speed, barreling past the intersection and towards the exit. Malcolm felt the snap of magic behind them and realized the the Architect was with the horde chasing them, maybe even leading them. The chase continued, the mages occasionally throwing potshots of arcane bolts or other spells behind them. Once, Velanna managed to reach a root system with her magic and the resulting barrier brought out a frustrated shout from the Architect and satisfied smiles on the Wardens. Then the heat from a fire blast pushed at their backs, and once again the Wardens drew on quickly waning inner reserves and surged forward ever faster. 

Malcolm was fairly certain that if they ever reached the surface, he’d drop dead the second he got out there. His limbs felt like leaden, numbed stumps that shuffled agonizingly slowly even as his brain shouted at them to move faster, for the love of the Maker, move _faster_. At first he thought it was a trick of his mind, but Malcolm saw light ahead, dim rays of hope reaching through the darkness.

“We’re nearly there!” Alistair shouted. Malcolm wondered where his brother found the amount of air necessary for that shout, but couldn’t voice the question. He could barely think it.

He glanced back and saw the Architect starting to cast a spell. Somehow they had slowed down without realizing it. The Architect and the darkspawn horde are nearly on top of them as they start to stumble out one by one into the clearing in the mountains. Líadan noticed and skidded to a stop, spinning around to unleash a spell just as the Architect did the same. The spells clashed in midair, crackling as they collided, combining into something more powerful than either mage had intended. Líadan’s eyes widened in alarm as she saw the power build and she turned and pushed Malcolm forward. He extended a hand backward to pull her with him and he briefly felt her fingers touch his before they were gone. As they raced one behind the other towards the bright exit to the clearing, the magic exploded around them.


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter 39**

“Fiend of fire and talon, its scales

Brighter than any warrior’s mail, teeth greater than men,

And all around the slumbering wyrm were bones:

Wolves, men, beasts beyond counting.

The fume of death frightened even the wolf pack,

And Dane, desperate, crept into the cavern

To seek the monster’s death alone.”

—from _The Saga of Dane and the Werewolf_ , 4:50 Black

**Malcolm**

The explosion knocked the rest of the Wardens clear as the stone overhead crumbled to fill the already narrow passage. Malcolm felt the fresh mountain air from outside brushing against his skin as he sprawled on the ground. A fine dust filled his side of the tunnel, and through the rock piled near him, he felt the darkspawn retreating. After a few interminable minutes, the dust settled, and he could see. He discovered that he’d finally caught his breath and it’d only taken being thrown about by an explosion to do it. The other Wardens were cautiously stepping back through the entrance from the clearing, Anders and Velanna casting strong lights from their staffs about the tunnel. Oghren grumbled and pushed between them, Alistair and Nathaniel right behind the dwarf. 

He couldn’t see Líadan. She wasn’t with them. She’d been _right_ _behind_ him, he’d had her hand, no, her fingers, no... they’d fallen away, and then everything had collapsed around them.

“There you are,” said Alistair.

Malcolm pushed himself up into a sitting position, even as Anders scolded him for doing so, and healing magic flowed from his fingers. “Where is she?” He didn’t even have to say her name.

Alistair’s eyes moved from Malcolm to the blocked passage behind him, loose soil and pebbles still skittering down the faces of the larger rocks. “I thought she was with you,” he slowly said, the words dragged out of him in a painful, reluctant confession.

Then Malcolm was on his feet and pressing against the collapsed section with his hands, feeling for loose rocks and seeking an opening into the tunnel beyond. But so far it seemed that the cave-in had effectively sealed the entrance, which had been their assignment in the first place. A whisper of responsibility as a Grey Warden told him he should leave it sealed, report their findings, and go investigate Kal’Hirol, the other active darkspawn threat, especially with the new information they’d gotten from the Architect. A shout of compassion and another emotion he was afraid to name told him to remain here and rescue Líadan from where she was trapped. He absolutely refused to believe she was dead, simply because she couldn’t be, ignoring that the world usually didn’t work like that. He touched his forehead to one of the rocks, the stone cool on his skin, and reached out with the taint. Something was there, faint and alone, but there. There was too much material between him and whatever it was that he felt for him to be able to tell if it was a Warden or a darkspawn, but there was someone there. It had to be her. It _had_ to be. “She’s in there,” he said out loud.

“Something is, yes,” said Alistair. “I’m just not... I mean, I can’t tell if...”

Keeping one hand on the rocks, Malcolm turned to look at his brother. “She’s not dead.”

Alistair blanched. “I didn’t say she was.”

“I’m not leaving her.”

“If we open that back up, we’re risking all of Highever again,” Alistair said, making a point, but his words were hesitant. 

Malcolm kept his gaze steadily on Alistair. “I made the decision once to let someone go in order to save everyone else and look where it got me. It didn’t even _work_ and I’m not making the same mistake again. I’m not leaving here without her. She’s not dead. I will dig with my bare hands if I have to because I’m not going to abandon her.”

For a moment, Alistair looked like he’d offer another objection. Then a flash of understanding passed through his eyes and he gave Malcolm a slight nod. “We’ll still need help,” he eventually said. “You can’t do this on your own. There’s a lot of rock between us and her.”

“If the rock fell on both sides, she’ll need air soon,” said Oghren, knowledgeable eyes appraising the collapsed section of the passage. “We might be able to get some sort of small hole through there to let air in. I’ve seen it done in the Deep Roads before once or twice during expeditions. If she’s conscious, we’ll be able to talk to her. It’ll be a lot harder to cut a hole through there big enough to fit her body, though, even as bony as she is. I mean, she’s got no rump!” The dwarf kicked at one of the larger stones near his foot. “You hear me, elf? I’m insulting your rump out here, saying you don’t have one. You going to just sit there on what you call a rump and take that kind of thing?”

Their only answer was the soft fall of loose dirt.

A flicker of a scowl crossed Oghren’s face before he could replace it with a rueful smile. “Guess she isn’t awake yet.” But Malcolm wasn’t fooled—Oghren was truly concerned about Líadan’s safety and her lack of answer almost frightened him. 

It did Malcolm.

“You really think she hasn’t got a rump?” Anders asked. “Have you walked behind her recently? Because I have, and—”

“Mage, while the elf might be incapacitated right now, the sodding prince standing near you certainly isn’t, so were I you, I’d watch my words,” Oghren said.

Alistair looked disbelievingly at the dwarf. “Since when do you watch what you say, Oghren?”

“Can dwarves be possessed by demons?” Anders asked Alistair. “Because if they can, the nicest one in the Fade just chose Oghren. I think we should keep it.”

Oghren hefted his axe and waved it in Anders’ direction. “Come over here and say that again, you winking, slack-jawed coward!” 

Before the mage could respond to Oghren’s challenge, a roar resounded through the shortened passage. The Wardens inside went absolutely still, listening closely as a second roar followed on the heels of the first. Alistair held up a hand to the others, telling them to stay put. Then he crept the few feet to reach the entrance of the cave and peeked outside. He jumped back immediately, and when he looked back at the others, his eyes were wide in disbelief and fear. “Hey,” he said, looking directly at Malcolm, “you know earlier when we wondered where the high dragon was?”

Malcolm swore, and then said, “Yes.”

“Well, I think we found her. Rather, she found us. Or at least knows where we are.”

“Your witty one-liners are getting a lot longer,” he replied as he searched for his shield. His sword was still in its scabbard from the long dash through the Deep Roads, but he’d kept his shield out the entire time. Except he hadn’t seen it since the cave-in. And his lungs and legs still ached from their prolonged run through the Deep Roads. He had no idea how they were supposed to fight a high dragon when they were all this wrung out. Not that they had much choice, hence looking for his shield in the first place.

“That’s what happens when you become king,” said Alistair, shield already strapped on and sword at the ready. “You become a wordy politician.”

Nathaniel moved up to stand next to the king, nocking an arrow as he took a peek of his own outside. “Once that dragon figures out that we’re in here, she can just breathe a bunch of fire into this tunnel and burn us to a crisp. This is assuming that actual high dragons really do breathe fire.”

Alistair nodded. “The two dragons we’ve fought did. Well, Flemeth was a shapeshifter turned into a dragon—or was she really a dragon turned into a human?—either way, she breathed fire on us. The archdemon had some sort of spirit fire instead of flames. Hurt just as badly as the burning kind of fire. However, quite pretty.”

A glint of light at the bottom of the rock slide caught Malcolm’s attention as he searched for his missing shield. When he squatted down to look at it, he discovered that it was the bottom corner of his shield and the rest of it was completely buried by the rockfall. He muttered another line of swears, earning him an impressed raised eyebrow from Oghren. Malcolm kicked at the base of the pile where his shield was. “Shield’s buried,” he said to the dwarf. Then he drew his sword, doing his best to ignore how naked and light his off-arm felt. “And that would’ve been really handy for whenever the fire came my way.”

“Your armor is enchanted against fire, you know that, right?” Oghren said as he tapped the flat of his axe blade against Malcolm’s chest.

He looked down at what he could see of his cuirass through tears in his tabard. “Really? I mean, I knew it was enchanted, but I didn’t know it was specifically for fire.”

“Aye. That and... I forget what else. I overhead the smith talking to King Endrin about it before they gave it to you. Considering the number of flagons I had, you’re lucky I remembered that much. So your body’s safe, but you might want to watch your face. I heard a rumor that some elf thinks it’s nice looking.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” After another glance back at where Líadan was trapped, Malcolm moved to the mouth of the cave with Oghren beside him. Velanna stood only a step behind them, eyes flicking in between the back of the cave and the opening at the front. 

“I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask the dragon to come back later because right now is a bad time?” said Anders. “Not that any time is a great time to fight a dragon.”

The dragon roared again.

The mage sighed. “No, I didn’t think so.”

“I think it knows we’re here,” said Nathaniel.

“Must you humans always state the obvious?” asked Velanna.

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow at her. “I see that we’ve moved up from shems to humans.”

“I see that you continue to state the obvious.”

Malcolm chanced it and finally surveyed the clearing himself. A crimson dragon flew in tight circles above the cirque, its golden eyes constantly on the tunnel’s opening. The trees would only provide cover once, as the dragon would likely knock them down the moment they hid behind them. Strategically, he noted that the fallen statue was their best bet in terms of stable cover for when they needed it. “Anders and Velanna, you stay back. Try to control the dragon as best you can, keep it from moving or getting into the air. Nathaniel, you do whatever hiding thing it is that you do that’s really creepy and hit whatever weak spots you can. Oghren and I will get in close for the kill. We have to stab it through the brain, that’s the only way it’ll die. From experience, anyway. If the dragon tries to attack one of you, Oghren or I will get its attention since we’ve got on heavier armor.”

“And what about me?” asked Alistair. “You don’t honestly think I’m going to cower in this cave while the rest of you fight a high dragon, do you?”

Malcolm shifted uneasily, not wanting to throw the heirless king into an incredibly dangerous battle with a high dragon. Yet Alistair was also an extremely capable fighter, far better than Cailan had been, and would be a tremendous asset. That, and as Nathaniel had said, the tunnel would be a deathtrap if the dragon caught on that anyone was hiding in it. Finally, if he’d really had an objection to putting the heirless king in a dangerous situation, he would’ve refused to allow Alistair to join them in the first place.

The king pressed the issue when his brother didn’t answer right away. “I’m not letting you go into battle without me.”

Malcolm sighed. “Just don’t get eaten by the dragon this time.”

“The dragon didn’t eat me,” said Alistair, attempting a reassuring smile. “It was more of a nibble, and then a toss. A really _far_ toss. I’ll do my best to avoid it.”

Outside, the dragon roared once more. 

“Let’s go kill the damn dragon,” Malcolm said, raising his sword and running out of the tunnel. A cloudy sky greeted them, flakes of snow drifting lazily to the ground, entirely ignorant of the dragon in their midst. Alistair and Oghren ran on either side of him and the three men ducked behind the fallen dwarven statue. Behind them, Nathaniel faded into the shadows, while Velanna and Anders did their best to look non-threatening as they ran behind the trees. Malcolm shouted insults at the dragon to get its attention while the two mages prepared spells. The dragon’s head snapped toward the three warriors, now standing fully upright and waving their weapons.

With another roar, the dragon swept downward, letting loose a blast of flames aimed at the warriors. Oghren ducked while Alistair held up his shield to ward off the fire. Malcolm attempted to do the same, remembering too late that he didn’t have his shield for this battle. The flames curved over his enchanted armor, licking upward towards his head. An acrid smell cut through the air as his hair started to singe. Oghren used the butt of his axe to hit Malcolm in the back of the knee, forcing him to drop downward. The rest of the flames flew harmlessly over the three of them. A burst of healing magic doused the burning sensation on Malcolm’s forehead and scalp even as he cursed himself for his forgetfulness. 

Malcolm was grateful, but there wasn’t time to thank Oghren or Anders for their actions. The dragon dropped to the ground, sending tremors through the earth, and buzzing up into their spines. The three warriors jumped out of cover and ran for the dragon, Malcolm and Alistair careful to stay side-by-side, Alistair becoming Malcolm’s missing shield as much as he was able. Another tremor rattled the earth and roots shot up from the ground, encasing three of the dragon’s thickly muscled legs. The dragon’s nostrils flared wide as it roared again, this time in outrage, and stamped its one free claw. Its tail thumped twice against the ground, and then slashed around towards the roots in an attempt to sever them. The ploy failed and the dragon twisted both body and tail. Malcolm and Alistair flanked around as Oghren went in from the front, eyes frenzied as he entered his berzerker state.

Malcolm realized they’d have to climb up on the dragon’s back if they wanted to end this fight quickly, if at all. His eyes flicked towards the spiked tail and he started for it. 

“No dragon climbing,” Alistair shouted at him over the dragon’s loud breathing.

“But—”

“Not sure if you’ve noticed, but so far everyone we’ve known who’s climbed a dragon has _died_. We’ll find another way.”

They would have to make it bleed, then, Malcolm thought. Tire it out from blood loss so that it couldn’t fly or lift its head, making it vulnerable for a mortal strike. As if he’d read Malcolm’s mind, Oghren rolled under the dragon, narrowly avoiding the swipe from the dragon’s teeth. His axe slit the dragon’s underbelly and it writhed above him, splashing curtain of blood onto the dwarf. One of Nathaniel’s arrows hit the dragon in the eye and it roared in the archer’s direction as it stomped its free foot in an attempt to crush Oghren. 

“You’re no archdemon!” Oghren yelled at the dragon, evading the claw at the last second.

The dragon inhaled deeply, and then released another blast of fire, aiming at the roots keeping it on the ground. The roots withered and burned, releasing the dragon from its bonds. 

“Paralyze it!” Malcolm shouted at Anders. 

The spell jumped out of the mage’s staff only seconds after the command was given. Glowing energy surged forth, enveloping the dragon as it flapped its wings to take to the air. When the spell hit, it slowed the wings down, but that was all. Velanna launched the same spell in an attempt to strengthen the first.

No effect.

Anders invoked a colorful swear about Andraste that sounded a lot like the one Velanna uttered about the Creators at the same time. Then he started a complicated set of movements that Malcolm couldn’t follow. He assumed—and hoped—that it was another, more powerful spell.

Despite the chill, stinging sweat dripped into Malcolm’s eyes. His fist clenched the grip of his sword too tightly from the tension, and he forced himself to loosen his hand instead of sacrificing control over the weapon. The dragon swooped above them, driving a wind of its own that smelled of smoky decay. Malcolm’s armor had become uncomfortably warm and his scalp felt like it was on fire again. The breeze shot thin tendrils of pain into his skull when it brushed against his hair. The dragon circled tightly over the three warriors, the gaping wound in its belly continuing to bleed. Drops of blood mixed with the snowflakes, landing on their armor in a mottled pattern of white and red before the snow melted and only the blood remained.

Its head drooping just a little, but enough for the Wardens to notice, the dragon returned to the ground. The second its claws touched down, Velanna called the roots again. But the dragon anticipated the spell and stepped away from most of the clutching roots, only one of its claws caught this time. But one kept it grounded all the same and Malcolm leapt at the opportunity. He raised his sword and barreled forward, feinting at a frontal assault. The dragon lashed at him with its teeth and Malcolm twisted away, spinning around and underneath to add another long gash to its underbelly. Alistair, spinning in the opposite direction, slashed at the dragon’s flank while Oghren yelled to draw its attention away from the two brothers. 

Malcolm rolled out from under the dragon to find himself near the tail. He started forward, wanting to take the chance presented to him to strike at the dragon’s head if he could climb up its back. It was too dangerous to Alistair and the others to prolong the fight any longer. Then Oghren appeared between Malcolm and the tail. “You heard the sodding pike-twirler!” he said, and then swung his battleaxe down into the meat of the dragon’s tail, slicing it in two. The tail’s stump flailed around, spattering both Wardens with gore as they ran backwards and out of its reach.

The light snowfall suddenly whipped into a blizzard around them. The rapid drop in temperature sucked the breath painfully from Malcolm’s lungs, ice particles tearing at his throat when he tried to inhale. Squinting into the near-whiteout conditions, Malcolm used his free arm to shield his face from the snow as much as he could, and tried to find the dragon. He could hear it roaring, and warm drops of blood continued to intermittently hit his armor, but he couldn’t see it. He scrubbed at his face and tried again, and then he saw a large, looming shadow slowly lifting from the ground near him. As he watched, the dragon-shaped shadow rose high into the air, and then disappeared, its roars fading, replaced by the howling winds of the storm.

For now, the dragon was gone.

The hard snow bit at his exposed skin and he realized he had no idea where in the clearing he was in relation to the tunnel. A tunnel that, in this sort of storm, would keep them alive. Then he remembered the taint and that Líadan was still somewhere in that tunnel and he reached out to feel it. It was faint—even more faint than before—and he hoped it was only because of the increased distance. A strange thunder rumbled through the clouds, muffled and out-of-place. Malcolm wondered if the storm was Anders’ doing or nature’s. Given that before they’d gone into the Deep Roads the bank of clouds over the Waking Sea had promised a storm, it could be that same one. Or, whatever complicated spell Anders had been casting could’ve been a blizzard such as this. Not often he heard thunder with a snowstorm, though. That certainly never signaled anything good. He frowned and sheathed his sword.

Then he felt towards his side with his left hand for Oghren, catching the back of the dwarf’s mail and hauling him forward.

“Bloody surface,” Oghren muttered. “Bloody mages making these sodding storms. Oh, look at me, I’m a mage, I can control the weather!”

Together, they staggered through the blustering snow and into the shallow tunnel. Anders, Velanna, and Nathaniel were already there, shivering and scowling. No Alistair yet, Malcolm noticed with growing alarm. He hadn’t been hit by the dragon before the storm blew in, not that he’d seen. It wouldn’t do to have the King of Ferelden freeze to death. He’d have to go back out and get him. Then he could finally start digging through to Líadan. Rest could happen once they reached her. 

“I don’t understand,” said Anders. “It should have dissipated by now.”

“I think it’s the storm that was over the ocean on our way in,” Malcolm said.

“And here I thought I was the best mage ever who cast the strongest blizzard spell in existence.”

“We’ll never know. It will forever be a bewildering mystery.” Malcolm headed back to the entrance of the cave. He could use the taint like he had before to find Alistair. Seeing would be a problem, though, as the whiteout conditions persisted.

Velanna stepped up to him, arcane energy forming a protective sphere around her. “Walk next to me,” she said. “The shield will keep out the snow.”

After giving her a questioning glance, Malcolm did as she asked, and her theory proved correct. The snow bounced off the shield, allowing them to see a little better than they would have if left to merely squinting through the driving snow. They found Alistair already trudging in their direction, looking exhausted and filthy, but uninjured. He offered them a wane smile. “I think we scared it away. Ha! We scared the _dragon_ instead of the other way around.”

“Or it doesn’t like the snow,” Malcolm replied.

“You know what? I’ll take whatever we can get.”

“If we’re making requests, I’ll take getting Líadan out of that caved in section of the tunnel as soon as possible, please. Preferably, before she runs out of air.” Because if they couldn’t get her out safely, he honestly had no idea what he would do.

Alistair didn’t reply. Instead, he kept his silence as he placed his sword back in its scabbard. The lack of optimism from his ever-optimistic brother sent a spark of fear along the back of Malcolm’s neck. Then anger followed in the fear’s wake, that Alistair wouldn’t take on the role he normally would of being the optimist, the one who reassured everyone else that things would turn out okay. Alistair wasn’t saying that they’d get Líadan out safe and sound and it was bothering Malcolm far more than he thought possible. Within the confines of Velanna’s arcane shield, the temperature seemed to drop even more and Malcolm repressed a shiver.

“You’re supposed to say something positive,” he finally told him.

“What? I don’t understand what you mean.” But Alistair didn’t make eye contact with his brother, the reluctance illustrating that he did know what Malcolm was talking about.

“Reassure me! Say that we’ll find her and it’ll be okay. That’s what you do. It’s kind of your thing. You happen to be really good at it, except for right now, because you aren’t saying it.”

Velanna pointedly didn’t look at either of the two men, instead keeping her gaze solidly on the ground in front of them. Alistair glanced nervously in the elf’s direction, and then straight ahead. “I just... I don’t want to give you false hope,” he said, barely loud enough to be heard over the wind.

Not what Malcolm wanted to hear. Alistair had even sounded more optimistic after Morrigan had left, and that time he hadn’t sounded optimistic almost at all. “Maybe that’s what we need.”

“Speak for yourself, shem. _I_ do not need false hope,” Velanna said. Then she turned and gave him a odd smile, a mixture of a smirk and, strangely, warmth. “ _Emma felas falon, asha venshiral’din ma. Seth’lin ma lath, ma inan’din._ ”

“No offense, but I am seriously starting to hate your language.” And he intended on studying it this winter, without a doubt. Otherwise, he suspected he’d probably lose his mind trying to figure out just how much he was missing in conversations like this. But if they didn’t get  Líadan out in time, or if she was already... he broke off that thought. Refusing to think of it any longer, he concentrated on the taint, ignored the other two people with him in the shield, and stumbled back into the blocked tunnel. 

Inside, the others had collected some of the numerous tree branches the dragon had knocked down and built a fire near the entrance. Oghren had leaned his axe against one of the walls and busied himself studying the rockfall, a look of total concentration on his face, one that Malcolm wasn’t sure he’d ever seen, even when they were searching for the archdemon in the Deep Roads. Nathaniel sat against a wall and cast worried looks alternately out into the storm, at the fire, or the back of the tunnel. Anders stood closer to Oghren, different spells flying out of his fingers and hitting nearby rocks, as if he was searching for a certain one. When Malcolm and Velanna returned with Alistair, they were welcomed with smiles that didn’t quite touch anyone’s eyes. Not because the Wardens weren’t grateful to see Alistair safe, but because they held the same worry as Malcolm. It wouldn’t mean as much if they descended from these Maker-forsaken mountains without _all_ of their compatriots. 

Anders did a double-take when he saw Malcolm, and then shot right to his feet. “Andraste’s kickers, Malcolm, sit down! No arguing, sit down _now._ Have you seen your head?”

Malcolm frowned at the mage, and the furrowing of his brow tugged the hair and skin on his scalp forward. The pain that had previously been numbed by the cold leapt forward and he winced. “No. Haven’t had a chance to check myself over in a mirror,” he replied, and then gritted his teeth. The burning sensation he’d felt for most of the fight with the dragon returned and he reached up with his hand to feel the area.

With speed no one had thought he possessed, Anders grabbed Malcolm’s wrist and stopped him before he touched it. “That would be bad. As in, it would hurt really, really badly. And make healing it even harder, since I’d have to worry more about infection, even though it already looks fairly dirty.” Anders peered at the wound, mouth twisting into even more of a frown. “Maker’s breath, I’m not even sure what’s gotten in there. You’ve been burned, in case you haven’t figured it out. Nothing I can’t fix, mind you, and there won’t be a scar like you’ve got on your cheek. But the hair, there’s nothing I can do there. You’ll just have to cut it incredibly short once I’m done or it will look lopsided.”

At the pronouncement on the unfortunate fate of his brother’s hair, Alistair’s face took on an overly horrified look, and his hands quickly reached up to check his own hair. 

Anders rolled his eyes. “ _Your_ hair is just fine, your Majesty. All those noblewomen will still be fighting over who gets to marry you, have no fear.”

“I told you to call me Alistair. None of that king stuff around Wardens.”

“Then don’t act like a prima donna and I won’t,” Anders said, the healing spell forming a glow about his fingers as he numbed the pain before he started in on cleaning the wound.

“Like you should talk about anyone else being a prima donna, Sparklefingers,” said Oghren, turning around to face the others. “I’ve figured out a safe spot for us to dig a hole of some kind. Well, one for air and water, if she needs it, and a different place for us to dig through to pull her out. Now I just need one of you mage-types to help me get that first hole done.”

Velanna straightened from her slouch against the wall. “I will help you, dwarf.”

Malcolm tried to watch what Velanna and Oghren were doing while Anders healed him, but he couldn’t see much and the mage wouldn’t let him move to get a better viewing angle. From what he heard, Oghren had some sort of idea about concentrating ‘one of them arcane bolt things’ to travel through a specific part of the cave-in, one that his stone sense told him wouldn’t collapse. Velanna apparently thought it was a decent idea and started experimenting on one of the stable walls to test how focused she could make the bolt. 

“We’re going to have to get help,” said Alistair. “Some of us are going to have to head to the camp in the foothills. There, we can get the surface dwarves up here to help us dig and to seal it back up.”

“I’m not leaving unless it’s with Líadan,” said Malcolm.

Nathaniel rose to his feet and fetched his pack from its resting place against one of the walls. “I’ll go. The trip should only take two days since I know exactly where I’m going and I don’t have to search for anything.”

“I’m going with you,” said Alistair. “Whether I like it or not, people will move faster if the king is telling them what to do.” His eyes glanced towards the entrance, where the wind still whipped snow into a bleak, white canvas. “We should go as soon as possible, feeling like we’re going to drop dead or not.”

“You will wait for me,” Velanna said, not looking up from her task. “If we are to move quickly, you will need my shielding abilities. Anders must remain here as Líadan will need healing.”

“What about the digging?” asked Oghren.

“I can do that.” Anders cast one final healing spell on Malcolm. “There. Done. Though your hair really is atrocious, not going to lie. As for helping with the digging, you ale-swilling mountain of belches, I’m just as capable as Velanna with that.”

“But you can’t manipulate roots like she can, you manskirt-wearing freak.” Oghren motioned towards the rockfall. “When we start digging the bigger tunnel, we’ll have to shore it up in some parts. We’ve a good seven or eight feet to dig through. I was thinking of using the roots the elf can summon to hold up the dirt.”

“As long as it isn’t delicate work, I think even I can manage that,” Anders replied. The other Wardens immediately shot him questioning looks. He held up his hands defensively. “What? I asked Velanna to teach me and she’s taught me a little. Did you not pay attention to a thing she said to me during all that time when we were hiking up here?” When no one said anything, he gave a slight roll of his eyes. “Obviously not. Well, as crude as my spells are with the root systems, I think I can manage supports to keep the rocks from filling in any tunnel we dig.”

“I believe that you can,” Velanna said to Anders. Then she looked down at Oghren. “Tell me exactly where to make this hole and exactly how large it needs to be.”

The dwarf had Anders cool one of the embers from the fire, and then Oghren used it to draw a circle on one of the larger rocks near the bottom of the pile. “There.”

Velanna motioned Oghren and the other Wardens back. Once they were a safe distance away, she fired the concentrated bolt at the mark, hitting it dead-on. The energy drilled into the rock, looking almost as if it were melting it. After a quarter of an hour, Oghren told her to stop and she cast another spell that cooled off the rocks. Then the dwarf stepped up and peered through an opening a little smaller than his head. It was wide enough for a flask to be pushed through, possibly even food if necessary. But if Líadan wasn’t alive on the other side of the collapse, they wouldn’t have to worry about either of those things. Malcolm moved past Anders and Velanna to stand next to Oghren.

“Air’s moving between here and the next chamber. You see, the rocks fell on both sides, so wherever she is, it’s a pretty small area that’s split off from both sides of the tunnel,” Oghren said after a moment. “Hey, elf!” he shouted into the newly-bored hole. “Elf! Nap’s over. Wake up.” 

No reply. 

“Come on, you little bloody blighter, wake your arse up!” 

Malcolm pressed his palms against the stones in front of him as Oghren continued shouting. He wished he could just push all of the rocks away or make them disappear or do something, anything helpful. There was something alive in that chamber; he could sense it through the taint. He was certain it was a Warden he was feeling. He frowned. Or he had been. But now, without an answer from her, doubt cracked through his certainty, and he started to wonder if they were tunneling to save a genlock or hurlock or even the Architect instead of Líadan. As the silence continued, marred only by pops from the fire and the occasional howl from the wind outside, Malcolm found it was beginning to get more and more difficult to breathe properly. He’d assumed she would always be there, because she always _had_ been there. He’d thought that there was enough time for him to figure out what was going to happen with Morrigan, so that he could act without risk of more pain for any of them. Except there was always risk in matters like these. And now all he could think about were all the missed opportunities. _The stolen kiss on the ship from Amaranthine._ Of all the things left unsaid. _I love you._ And of everything he’d taken for granted. _Like her_.

Oghren continued to shout, his voice taking on a worried undertone only those who knew him well could hear. “Elf! Sodding nughumping stones, say something!”

Fergus’ question repeated itself to Malcolm in his mind: _“Is she more important to you than anything else in your life?”_

He’d found the answer.

_Yes._

“By the tits of my Ancestors, elf, if you don’t—”

“ _Len’alas lath’din, ar tu na’lin emma mi, mahala’din!_ ” came Líadan’s roughly voiced reply from within the next chamber.

“She just told you to shut up or she’ll gut you,” Velanna happily translated for Oghren.

“Aye?” asked Oghren. “That word for word?”

“Rough translation.”

The dwarf grinned at the answer. “Ha! That’s our girl.”

Malcolm laughed, more in relief than anything, the notes giddy and strained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish Translations:
> 
> -Velanna to Malcolm: “Emma felas falon, asha venshiral’din ma.”  
> “My slow friend, she will not leave you. The idiot loves you, but you don’t see.”
> 
> -Líadan to Oghren: “Len’alas lath’din, ar tu na’lin emma mi, mahala’din!”  
> “Dirty child no one loves, I will see your blood on my blade if you do not shut up!”


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elvish Translations:
> 
> -Líadan: “Abelas, emma tu na’din.”   
> “I’m sorry that I caused your deaths.”
> 
> -Líadan: “Ar’din lath’din ma, alasbora. Ma’arlath. Emma alasbora.”  
> “I don’t hate you, you idiot. I love you. I’m an idiot.”
> 
> -Líadan: “Emma ir abelas.”  
> “I am filled with sorrow.”
> 
> -Líadan: “Elgar’nan, tushiral emma nan vir’din Nuada Mahariel la Gwenael Suriel.”  
> “Elgar’nan, guide my vengeance for the deaths of Nuada Mahariel and Gwenael Suriel.”
> 
> -Marethari: “Halamnan him revas.”  
> “The end of vengeance becomes freedom.”
> 
> -Marethari: “Melana ‘nehn enasal ir sa lethalin.”  
> “Time will again be the joy it once was.”

**Chapter 40**

“To the ancient elves who existed during the time of Arlathan, uthenera was an act of reverence. Elves did not age. They were not immortal, but they did not suffer from deterioration of mind or body. They suffered only deterioration of the spirit.

It did not happen often, but the oldest of the elves were said to reach a point where they became weary of life. Memories became too much to bear, and rather than fade into complacency, they voluntarily stood aside to let newer generations guide their people.

Uthenera means ‘the long sleep,’ in which the elder would retire to a chamber that was one part bed and one part tomb. To great ceremony from all extended family, the elder would succumb to a slumber from which they would not wake for centuries, and often never. In time, the body would deteriorate and the elder would die in truth. All the while, family would continue to visit the chamber to pay respect to one who made such a great sacrifice.

With the arrival of humans and the quickening of elven blood that ensued, the practice of uthenera began to fade. When Arlathan fell, it ceased forever.”

—from _What Has Passed_ by Hassandriel, Lord of Halamshiral, 2:7 Glory

**Líadan**

The dwarf hadn’t stopped his shouting. 

Líadan struggled to put her thoughts into words, and her subsequent words from Elvish to Fereldan. She had enough awareness where she knew she must sound like she spouted gibberish, every sentence half in one language and half in another. More words spilled from her mouth in a low mumble and she scowled at hearing smatterings of Elvish still within them. Perhaps her brain had been separated from her head during the cave-in, and if she located it, she’d be able to speak properly again. That would be nice.

“What?” yelled Oghren.

“ _Emma then_ ,” she repeated, and then growled. “I’m awake, I mean.” Aside from the single thread of light streaming in from the hole in the rockfall, the pocket that trapped her was pitch black. But her head pounded so much that she was almost grateful for the darkness, because light might’ve actually caused her to burst into tears. Or pass out. Passing out sounded good. Shoving that thought out of her mind, she moved her dust-covered hands out beside her and pushed herself into a sitting position. Just sitting, she wobbled back and forth and had to press her face into her palms to try and regain her balance. She needed to lean on something. Opening her eyes again, she looked away from the light, letting her vision adjust to the darkness so she could see at least a little. With this scant amount of light, even elven eyes had trouble seeing well. The cave’s wall was a couple feet behind her and she tried to pull herself over.

A ripping pain lanced through her upper right leg and she gasped. Warmth spread up and across her armor and her hands flew to cover the wound. Blood seeped over her fingers, wet and sticky, and she swore. Light flashed on the culprit as the bladed end of her broken staff slid out of  the deep stab wound it’d just inflicted on her thigh. She shifted her hands upward, just above the wound, and applied pressure. This was bad, she recognized that much. From the pattern and amount of blood flow, she could tell that one of the important blood vessels in her leg had been nicked, or worse. That meant if she couldn’t stop the bleeding soon, she would rapidly lose all the blood from her body and die. And she wasn’t a healer and she was _trapped_ in this Creators-forsaken tomb of stone. 

“What’s wrong?” asked another familiar male voice, sharp with worry.

“I’m...” she trailed off, almost having told Malcolm that she was fine, when it was patently a lie considering she was bleeding out. “Is Anders out there?”

“Right here. What’s going on? Talk to me, Líadan. I need to know if you’re wounded.” Anders’ tone was different from its normal lighthearted playfulness. Now it was an earnestness that reminded her of Wynne. In a way, it was reassuring, reminding her that above all else, Anders was an incredibly skilled healer. Of course, there was also a thick rock wall between them, so he couldn’t be nearly as much help as she needed.

Already, the voices on the other side seemed even more disembodied than before. She bit her lip, willing herself to pay attention and remain alert. “I need to heal a stab wound,” she said, aiming for economy of words so she expended less energy on talking. “Or I’ll bleed out. Talk me through it.”

Anders sighed, and she thought she could hear someone pacing, and another person swearing. Then he said, “This is really delicate work. You need to do exactly as I say or it could make things even worse. We won’t even have time to see if you... nevermind.” He slowly launched into a careful, step-by-step explanation of what she needed to do. 

Líadan followed his directions exactly, drawing on her remaining stores of energy and concentration to complete the spells. As she worked, her skin got cooler to the touch, and her breathing became shallow. But she persevered and soon enough, the vessel that had been cut closed up with muscles and tissues and skin properly sealed over it. It wasn’t good work and it stood a decent chance of re-opening before Anders got a look at it, but it would do to keep her alive for now.

“Is it closed?” Anders asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. Okay, now there’s one more thing you need to do.” Apparently having realized that any healing Líadan did to this extent wasn’t going to hold together well, Anders walked her through a spell that would keep the area stable until a better healer could fix it. 

Once she’d finished that spell, her attention wandered and she stared into the dark.

“Líadan?” Anders again.

“Here.” She jolted from her daze, blinking several times to clear her head. Then she picked up the broken end of her stave and tossed it into a far corner, where the blade struck the stone and sparked once before clattering to the ground. Sharp objects safely out of range, Líadan scooted back on her rear to lean against the far wall, orienting herself so that the hole to the outside was within arm’s reach. As she shifted, she bumped into her pack and dragged it with her. _Thirsty_. And her head still hurt. Hurt more, actually. Her hands fumbled for her flask.

“You might be going into shock,” said Anders.

“Probably,” she replied, strangely without any urgency. As she tried to recall first aid lessons from her keeper and the senior hunters, she drained the rest of her water from her flask. After dropping the empty container, she said, “I think I dreamed about a dragon before. Or I heard one. Definitely heard one.”

“There was one out here,” said Malcolm. “We fought it. Didn’t kill it, though. Flew away.”

She chuckled, and then shivered, pulling her arms close around her body. “Dragons are scared of _us_ now. That’s pretty impressive.”

“That’s what I said,” came Alistair’s voice.

“That is _not_ what you said,” Malcolm told his brother. 

“Close enough.”

“Both of you, shut up,” Anders said. “Líadan, I think you might be going into shock. You need to find your pack, if you can, and get your bedroll and wrap yourself in the blanket. And keep talking, because you need to stay awake.”

“But I’m _tired_.” They were saying her name an awful lot more than they usually did. And how could he not understand how tired she was? He was supposed to be a kind, understanding healer. But she liked the idea about the blanket and set to fetching the bedroll from her pack. It took some time, chatter from the other side of the rocks floating in and out of her ears. Eventually she wrestled the blanket free and sighed happily as she draped it over herself. 

“Líadan,” said Alistair, “Nathaniel, Velanna, and I are leaving now to go down to the foothills to get help. Everyone else is going to stay to dig you out.”

She smiled. “That’s nice of you all.”

“Something is really wrong with her,” said Malcolm.

“I know. I told you, she’s going into shock,” Anders answered, his tone getting testy. “Líadan, are you hurt anywhere else? Bleeding anywhere else?”

“Head hurts.” She gingerly prodded at her head with her fingers, flinching when she hit a particularly tender spot, a warm knot rising up into her hair. “Oh, that can’t be good.” She told Anders about the knot, and it made the mage swear. 

“You really, really have to stay awake,” he said, sounding more serious than before, which, by her accounts, had been the most serious she’d ever heard him. “You’ve most likely got a concussion. Because, you know, with your other injury, you really needed one.”

Líadan suspected that she was also supposed to be serious, but couldn’t seem to make herself act like that, even though part of her was entirely convinced that something here was very wrong, something to do with her injuries. There was the trapped thing, too, as aside from the hole the others had managed to create, she was walled in on all sides. At least there weren’t darkspawn to worry about, as the only thing she felt through the taint were the other Wardens. Certainly nothing that had been chasing them—no ghouls, no darkspawn, no Architect. And what had been with the Architect and that whole deal with Ethliel? Since when did the darkspawn have anything to do with elves? _Since you stumbled on a tainted Elvhen and Tevinter artifact and became tainted yourself_ , her mind informed her. But if what the darkspawn creature had said was true, that Ethliel—somehow changed from clan to godlike being—had spoken to him, then the darkspawn had been involved in her life many years before she became tainted.

Marethari had told her about Valoel and the lost Ethliel clan just after... Líadan closed her eyes, squeezing them shut in an attempt to force the memories away. But they refused to leave, lingering in her mind, images of open graves accompanied by the scent of freshly dug soil, rich and black, waiting in a soft pile to be thrown onto the lifeless bodies of her parents. She had nearly missed the funeral, having gone on a hunt of her own after finding their bodies in the Passage, seeking more members of the shemlen Chantry that had killed them. Rage had held her body absolutely still as Paivel recited the elegy, her newly discovered magic—the very thing that had started her parents on the path to their deaths—snapping along her arms and outside her clenched fists. “ _Abelas_ ,” she mumbled into the darkness. “ _Abelas, emma tu na’din_.”

“What did she say?” Malcolm asked on the other side of the rockfall. “We should have kept Velanna here. Half the things she’s saying are in Elvish and none of us speak it. What if it’s something important? What if it’s her saying she’s re-opened that wound and is bleeding out again?”

“Elf! Are you bleeding out?” Oghren shouted through the hole, and then said to Malcolm, “See, all you have to do is ask. Don’t be such a pansy like the pike-twirler.”

Líadan rubbed at her face with her fingers, trying to scrub away the confusion and the memories and bring herself to the present. “I—no. Feel free to ignore me.” That hadn’t come out correctly, she realized. She didn’t want to be ignored. She just wanted them to not pay attention to whatever she happened to say while trapped in unwelcome memories.

“Sorry, hate me if you like, but that’s not going to happen,” said Malcolm.

She laughed, amused that he thought she hated him. Hadn’t she already explained that she didn’t? That she _couldn’t_ , even if she tried, because she felt exactly the opposite? “ _Ar’din lath’din ma_ , _alasbora_. _Ma’arlath_ ,” she told him around her chuckles, and then the laugh became rueful and directed inward. “ _Emma alasbora._ ” Her mind fully supported what she said, echoing the statement that she was, indeed, an idiot.

“What? Líadan, you have to speak Fereldan or I can’t understand you. Please. What are you saying?”

“I said I don’t hate you,” she said, her fingers pressing against the pile of rocks between them, searching for a weakness, an escape, a way to connect to those on the other side. She heard scraping outside and wondered if Malcolm was doing the same thing. 

“Those were an awful lot of words to just tell someone you don’t hate them,” Malcolm said. “What else did you say?”

She scowled. He was entirely too observant for his own good and she was in no condition to try to mentally and verbally spar with him. “Not telling you the rest.”

“I... fine. Have it your way.” He sighed in resignation and what sounded like hurt. “Then what did you say before that?” Líadan hated that she couldn’t see his face, couldn’t tell if she’d hurt him or how badly if she had. There were thuds and footsteps on the far side of the other chamber. “Hold on,” Malcolm said, and then his voice sounded a little faint as he addressed someone else. “What’s going on? Why have you got your ear pressed on the ground, Oghren?”

“Stone sense. Dwarf, remember? I’m trying to find the most stable part of this fall so we can start digging a proper-sized tunnel to fit her bony arse through so we can get—”

“I don’t have a bony arse,” Líadan said, interrupting him with her indignance. Though, with the frigid temperature of the stone under it, she certainly had a _cold_ arse.

“Ha! Think whatever you want, elf, but you’ve got no rump.” Then his voice was directed towards Malcolm again. “See? She’s doing fine if she’s defending herself. You only need to start worrying if she starts agreeing with me. Anyway, the mage is taking a rest while I look for the right spot, and then once I explain how and where to dig, he’ll start on that and I’ll sleep a bit. You keep her talking in the meantime and you can help dig once I get that part started. To be honest, though, it’s the mage who’ll be the most help here.” Oghren’s voice changed again, aimed at a presumably preening Anders. “And don’t let it go to your head, either! Bloody manskirt-wearing mages.” Back towards Malcolm. “We don’t have the proper equipment, things like shovels and pickaxes, so we’ll have to use his magic if we’re going to get in there before the turn of the century.”

“Malcolm needs to sleep, too,” said Anders. 

“That’ll happen whenever he passes out from exhaustion and not any time before,” Oghren replied before Malcolm could say anything. “Until then, he can keep the elf awake and talking while I listen to the stone.”

A grumble of swearing from Anders, followed by a sigh, and then he said, “I’m going to sleep. Wake me up in a few hours.”

“Líadan,” Malcolm said. “You awake in there?”

She loved it when he said her name, she thought. He should say it more often. Out loud, she said, “Yes.”

“So what did you say before? I mean, before you said you didn’t hate me.”

“I was...” she trailed off, weighing her options. She could try to avoid telling him anything, but he seemed bound and determined to make her keep talking, and so he’d just persist. And him persisting like that would lead to her losing her temper and, considering her current state, that seemed like a very bad thing. He might also go back to what she’d said around the not hating him statement, and that would be worse to talk about—especially in front of Oghren—than what’d happened with her parents. “I was talking to my parents.”

“Are you seeing them in there or something?” He sounded alarmed. 

“No! No. Not really. Just... memories. That’s all. And the words just kind of tumbled out. You should know about that. You do it all the time.”

He laughed, sounding less strained than he had before, when she vaguely remembered hearing him after she’d yelled at Oghren. “Especially when I have concussions. That happened to me once during the Blight. I nearly told everyone some Grey Warden secrets, but Wynne, of all people, managed to shut me up in time. Actually, I think she threatened to set me on fire. Then we got her to tell a story about when she set a boy on fire when she was a little girl. It was how she found out she was a mage, come to find out. The boy had been teasing her, and she set his hair on fire. Both Alistair and I said he deserved it.”

“That’s kind of how I found out,” Líadan said without thinking.

“You set someone on fire? That’s not really your thing. If I recall correctly, your method of dealing with boys who tease you is to hit them with lightning.”

She sighed. “It _was_ lightning. And before I hit him with it, I hadn’t even known I was a mage. I thought I was just any other Dalish hunter.”

“How old were you?” The puzzlement was obvious in his voice. Líadan imagined the furrow that’d be in his brow as he tried to figure it out. 

“Sixteen. I’d only been a full hunter for a week.”

“Isn’t that kind of old? I thought most mages showed signs a lot sooner. Connor, Arl Eamon’s son, he was just nine or ten or something. Or are elves different?”

“No, elves aren’t any different from humans when it comes to showing their affinity for magic if they have it. Mine just... it never really appeared.” She held in a sigh. “Apparently my magic isn’t the strongest. It’s decent, but nothing compared to Anders or Velanna or Wynne. And practically _nothing_ compared to Morrigan’s ability. She’s... Wynne once said that Morrigan was the strongest mage she’d ever seen. Alistair was there to hear it and he said that if Wynne thought Morrigan was powerful, she should’ve met Morrigan’s _mother_. Wynne said she preferred not to.” She couldn’t figure out why she was just talking about this, the words practically falling out of her mouth without her being able to stop them. It had to be the injuries, she decided, refusing to believe it could be voluntary.

“Well, be happy for that much, I suppose.” He paused, and then asked, “What happens to Dalish elves who turn out to be mages? I mean, I know what happens with humans and city elves—a bunch of templars show up and cart you away from your family and everything you’ve ever known and take you to the Circle. But I noticed it’s different for the Dalish. For instance, I did see that all your keepers are mages.”

“We’re trained, usually by the Keeper or the keeper’s First—that’s the keeper’s apprentice. Usually there aren’t more than two mages in a clan. Having more than that is rare and usually considered a blessing among the Dalish. It isn’t like it is among humans. It isn’t shameful or a curse to be a mage with the Dalish. It’s something to be proud of, really. That’s partly why Velanna is so prideful. _Because_ she’s a mage. And she was also apparently her keeper’s First. That wasn’t going to be my position, though, since my magic isn’t very strong. Mostly, they taught me some useful spells, and I continued acting like I was a Dalish hunter.” If only she _had_ been just a hunter, because then her parents wouldn’t have died.

“Your parents weren’t mages?”

“No. They were hunters.” She remembered, as a little girl, picking up her father’s spear and trying to wield it. The spear had been three times her height and she hadn’t been able to keep the tip or the butt from dragging on the ground, depending on which end she tried to hold up. His green eyes—like hers—had creased in the corners as he chuckled when he noticed her. But the laughs weren’t mocking. They were warm and kind, the same as his hands when he patiently taught her how to wield her own spear, one he had the smith craft for her. His fond laughter, his strong hands, they had meant safety.

“What happened to them? I mean... we didn’t see them at your camp and your Keeper, she never mentioned them. And, well, you really never said anything, especially not to me.”

“Templars. They—” she cut herself off, biting her lower lip as her chin started to shake. Creators, what was this? One knock to to the head and her emotions start a rebellion? Her mind joined in, and the darkness of her cave changed to a view of her parents as they headed into the forest. Walking side by side, her father with his spear resting almost jauntily on his shoulder, the tip clipping against leaves above him. Her mother unwinding her sinew bowstring to put on her bow, arrows shuffling about in their hardened leather quiver. It would be the last time she saw her father alive, and almost her mother. Almost.

She took a breath, steadying her chin and voice as much as she could, and then said, “When I hit that boy with a lightning bolt, we’d been skirting close to the Brecilian Passage. We didn’t know, but there were five templars walking through the Passage, out hunting an apostate. They felt the magic somehow and came looking for us. For me.” She took another breath. “They were surprisingly good at tracking and... relentless. They searched for two days, our hunters keeping tabs on them, and were getting closer and closer to our encampment. My parents, they decided that they would go stop the templars before anyone else in the clan was put in danger. They didn’t take any other hunters with them. They didn’t even tell the rest of the clan what they were doing. Instead, they just got their weapons, said goodbye to me, and left. They _left_.” Her words caught in her throat and refused to be said. She knew why they’d done it, that they were protecting her and the clan, but they didn’t have to do it alone. Yet they did, and by doing that, they’d left her. “I never saw my father alive again. And my mother... it was close enough.”

Líadan wanted to pace. She wanted to hit things with lightning, hack some darkspawn into tiny pieces, anything to get this rush of anger and frustration out of her. What kind of daughter was she, to be angry with her parents for protecting her from the templars who wanted to take her away from the clan forever? And in the end, it didn’t even matter, because seven years later, she would become tainted and be forced to join the Grey Wardens to survive, leaving her clan behind forever. She was ungrateful for their sacrifice—one they wouldn’t even had to have made if she was more self-aware—and ultimately, it had been a waste. One way or another, she’d ended up without her clan and with the humans. Humans who where not what she thought they would be. Some of them even reminded her of home, if she let them.

“How long did you wait before you went after them?” Malcolm asked after a few moments of silence had passed. The bright curiosity had disappeared from his voice, replaced by something more dark, making it scratchy. 

The corner of her mouth curled in a half-smile, that somehow this human knew her well enough to guess, correctly, that she had gone after her parents. Perhaps it was true, then, that he and the Wardens had become her clan. “A few hours, actually. I was a much more obedient child than you might guess.” Her mouth had gone dry from all the talking, and Líadan fetched her other flask from her pack and took a sip. Then she said, “I was too late.”

On the other side of the rockfall, she heard scuffling, a grunt, and then Oghren saying, “Here, pass her this.”

“Do you really thing that’s a good idea? What would Anders say?”

“Sparklefingers is asleep and it isn’t time to wake him up, so I don’t give a nug’s arse what he sodding thinks. She needs it. End of story. So take the mage’s staff and poke it through that hole.” A pause, and then Oghren chuckled. “Heh. That sounded dirtier out loud than I thought it would.”

More scraping. Malcolm must’ve been getting to his feet and grabbing Anders’ staff, Líadan thought, and then suppressed a giggle at the statement. Then something was in the hole the Wardens had bored and being pushed through. A small metal flask popped out and she stared at it as it fell to the ground. “Ale?” she asked.

Malcolm sighed. “Dwarven. As you probably heard, Oghren thinks you need it. _I_ still think it’s a bad idea, but I’ll respect my elders in this case.”

“You’d sodding better,” said Oghren. “I found the right place to dig, by the way, but we can’t start until the mage is awake. By my count, he gets another hour. So I’m going to sleep while we wait for him. Kick me awake in an hour.”

Líadan twisted the cap off the flask and her eyes teared up as her nose burned from the smell that assaulted her nostrils. Malcolm was probably right, that this was a bad idea, but she wasn’t inclined to be exactly rational at the moment. She pinched her nose shut and took a quick swig. It burned her throat as badly as it burned her nostrils and she nearly gagged. As a lovely warmth spread through her stomach and into the rest of her body, she put the cap back on, but kept the flask in her hands. “That was interesting.”

“Oh, good, you’re still alive.”

“One sip isn’t going to kill me,” she pointed out.

“Not from what I’ve heard about dwarven ale.” More scraping, and then there was a soft thud against the rocks. She assumed it was Malcolm leaning his back against them. Then he asked, “If the templars... if they... if they did that to your parents, then how did they not find you?”

She turned the flask over and over in her with her fingers, the light from the outer cave glinting dully off its sides on each rotation. “I’ll tell you,” she said quietly, shocked that she’d said it, but once it was out there, she refused to go back on her word. So she told him.

**Seven Years Before the Blight**

Líadan ran soundlessly through the underbrush of the Brecilian Forest along a ridge above the winding, trampled dirt trail of the Passage. She caught glimpses of it every few minutes, the shemlen byway through the forest that she believed truly belonged to the Dalish. She’d yet to see or hear the templars or her parents, even as she listened to the sounds of the forest as attentively as she did while hunting. Then again, this was hunting, of a sort. Only this time she sought her parents while hunting the shems. She should have gone with them, she knew. Insisted she accompany them instead of just obeying without question and allowing them to go. The few hours she’d waited had passed as an eternity, making her question why her ancestors had ever wanted to live their thousand-year or more lives if time could be this tortuous. Eventually, she’d given up on waiting, scribbled a note for Tamlen and Marethari, grabbed up her daggers, and headed into the forest. She’d given her mother her supply of arrows, so she left her bow in the aravel. She dearly missed its presence in her hand.

The young elf came to a halt when she heard clanking in the distance, the sound of metal hitting another piece of metal, but not the sound of clashing weapons. It was different, like when the smith dropped a newly-forged sword into a bucket of other finished swords. Quietly, Líadan peeked through the brush to see a lone human standing in the middle of the Passage, dressed in plate armor and an absurd-looking metal helmet that covered everything but his eyes.

And around him, there were bodies.

Four other similarly dressed humans were splayed on the ground in various positions of death, either arrows to the throat or stab wounds to vital areas. Along with them were two elves. Her father, clearly dead, his neck nearly cleaved in two, his face ashen underneath his _vallaslin_. The other elf, her mother, still moved, her hand reaching out towards her father’s lifeless body. The shemlen, who must’ve been a templar, raised his sword, tip pointed downward, over Líadan’s mother’s chest. Líadan’s hand went to grab an arrow and came up empty. She swallowed a curse. As the templar’s sword plunged downward, Líadan plunged out of the forest, leaping off the ridge and rolling as she hit the ground underneath. But in the time it took for her to regain her footing and draw her daggers, the templar’s blade had already finished its journey. Her mother lay transfixed on the blade, her outstretched hand as limp and as lifeless as the body it had once stretched toward.

A cry rose from Líadan’s throat, unintelligible in words, entirely understandable in its choking agony. At the sound, the templar slowly turned around. Líadan’s fingers dropped her daggers and lightning channeled through her hands, burning a hole in the templar’s upper body that mirrored where the sword quivered in her mother’s chest. The shemlen collapsed, dead before he toppled onto another of his templar companions.

Líadan rushed forward, dropping to her knees near her parents’ bodies, but she was too late. She had acted too slowly, not taking advantage of the very skill that had sent them out here in the first place, and her mother had died because of it. She passed a shaking hand over her mother’s wide-open, shocked eyes and closed them to the world. “ _Emma ir abelas_ ,” she whispered over the bodies, an apology for what she hadn’t done. “ _Elgar’nan, virinan emma nan vir’din Nuada Mahariel la Gwenael Suriel._ ” The All-Father would guide her vengeance for their deaths. “ _Dareth shiral_ ,” she said to her parents. “ _In uthenera na revas._ ”

Then she pushed herself to her feet and searched for better weapons. Her father’s spear had been splintered and lay broken in a chink in the armor of one of the templars. Her mother’s bow, however, was still intact. Líadan found the quiver a few feet away from the bow and secured it to her back before picking up the bow and testing the bowstring. Still good.

A thirty minute run later, and Líadan was on the outskirts of the shemlen village, the trip having done nothing to dampen her rage. From her place in the shadows of the forest, she could see the arches of the chantry, the building that held more of these templars that had coldly cut down her parents. Two more of those men in heavy plate stood outside the building, staring out of the metal buckets on their heads with dark eyes. Her own eyes were immediately drawn to each vulnerable section in their armor, each spot where her arrow could inflict a mortal injury were it to strike true. She had the ability to do it. She knew she was not a good mage—only the kind that got people killed—but she was a fine hunter. Líadan reached over her shoulder and plucked out an arrow, nocked it with practiced efficiency, and then drew it back to her cheek. 

A hand reached out and grasped the arrow. “ _Da’len_ , you must not.”

Líadan spun around in anger to face the voice’s owner, Marethari, who had found her, tracked her, somehow _known_ she would be here. She didn’t bother asking how, as it would never get a proper explanation from the older woman. “They must be avenged,” she told the keeper, not caring if she sounded disrespectful or not. These were her _parents_. She had watched her mother die and had done nothing, and therefore she owed it to them to see it righted.

“They must not. To seek vengeance against the human Chantry would put the clan in danger. Your parents sacrificed themselves to keep you and the rest of the clan from the very danger you risk bringing down upon us if you continue on this path.” Marethari’s voice was calm and irritatingly, impossibly rational.

Líadan looked from the keeper and towards the two clueless templars standing guard outside the chantry. “I vowed that I would do this.” She had yet to lower her bow, and her hand nearly twitched for want to nock another arrow.

“Your parents did this to keep you free. You know the stories of the templars, and how they will take mages and imprison them in their towers. Do not trap yourself on a path of vengeance, _da’len_. It is a prison as much as any human tower. Your parents sacrificed themselves for your freedom. Do not waste it.”

Líadan’s eyes flicked back to the keeper. “But—”

Marethari’s touch on her arm was warm and firm. “Come. The clan must guide your parents to their final peace.”

Then Líadan noticed that her bow—her mother’s bow—was already lowered. Her body had decided before her mind. In rebellion, anger surged through her hands and snapped the bow in half over her knee, and then she threw the pieces deeper into the forest behind them. Rage still held her as she quietly followed Marethari back to the encampment. As they walked, the keeper explained how they had removed the bodies from the scene, both her parents and the templars. The humans would assume that the apostate the templars had been hunting had killed them. Yet Líadan barely heard through the anger that muffled outside sound. The rage stayed with her through the burial and planting, her hands trembling with it as she packed the rich, black soil around the saplings above her parents’ graves.

She held vigil through the night, not even Tamlen daring to approach her against the wall of her anger. The moon had reached its zenith in the sky when Marethari joined her, remaining silent for a time, observing the silvery light playing on the broad leaves of the saplings as Líadan did. Then she said, “I feel I must tell you a story, _da’len_.”

“Now is hardly the time for stories, Keeper.” Líadan bit back a more harsh reply, fingernails digging into the skin of her palms at the effort. _Keep them to yourself. I have no need for bedtime stories._

“There is always a time for our history. We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last of the _Elvhenan_.”

Líadan finished the oath as a reflex, a whisper into the night. “Never again shall we submit.” Then she sighed. “Fine. I will hear your story.” She wasn’t sure yet if she’d listen.

Marethari considered Líadan’s answer for a moment, and then said, “In the time of the _Elvhenan_ , there was a house, a clan called the Ethliel. They were a clan that practiced absolute peace. They fought no battles, no wars. They were revered as mediators, as scholars, philosophers, and powerful mages. They were the only clan that worshipped Valoel, the ancient god of peace, exclusively. Their temples were only for her and her cause, for they were all of one belief with their god. One day, Valoel was betrayed by Samandirel, the god of imagination, and now a Forgotten One. Much of the story has been lost and we do not know exactly what happened between them. What knowledge remains to us is that her children were taken away from her, and for this, she swore vengeance against Samandirel. She turned on her people, wiping out entire villages, ignoring their pleas for mercy. The remaining Ethliel scattered to escape her wrath, turning away from her as she had turned away from peace to her vengeful sorrow. The other gods went to banish Valoel to the realm of the Forgotten Ones to stop her slaughter, but she had already disappeared. Trapped in her grief and path of vengeance, she is forever as imprisoned as her children. Before her last follower abandoned her, he told her how she would obtain her freedom, and the freedom of her children.”

Líadan looked over at the keeper, eyebrow raised, unwilling to cooperate with Marethari’s attempt at dramatic effect.

“‘ _Halamnan him revas,’_ the man told her. And then she killed him for his wisdom.”

The end of vengeance becomes freedom. To say that, and then die for doing so? “Ouch,” Líadan said out loud. “I need to remember not to mouth off to a god, should I ever come to face to face with one.”

“That was not the lesson I was trying to impart. However, that is also a good one to learn.” Marethari paused for a moment, as if waiting for Líadan to make a smart remark. When none was made, she said, “Do not follow the same path, _da’len_. Your parents would not wish it. Let it go, so that you may live your life.”

“I...” Líadan wanted to agree right away. At least, part of her did. But she couldn’t bring herself to say it. Not then. “I will consider your words, Keeper.”

“Then you are already one step ahead of a god, since you did not kill me outright.” When Líadan glanced over, she thought she saw mirth lurking within the keeper’s eyes. “It will take time for it to fade. But fade it will.” Marethari stood up, knees creaking from age. “ _Melana ‘nehn enasal ir sa lethalin, Líadan_.”

Time will again be the joy it once was. Líadan wondered if Valoel would’ve killed someone for saying that to her. 

Very likely.

 


	41. Chapter 41

**Chapter 41**

“Though stung with a hundred arrows,

Though suffering from ailments both great and small,

His Heart was strong, and he moved on.”

— _The Chant of Light, verse unknown_

**Malcolm**

“This might be the first time I wished I were in the mining caste instead of the warrior caste,” said Oghren as he tossed a pile of dirt out of the cave from the cloak they were using as a makeshift bucket.

“This might be the first time I wished I were a mage,” Malcolm replied. 

Anders smirked at them from his seat against the wall. “Good to know you warriors are beginning to realize how useless you really are.”

Malcolm ignored the comment, jumping in to speak before the sputtering Oghren could become coherent again and start in on Anders. “Maybe not the first time. There was the time Fergus told me there was a genlock in a wardrobe, and when I went to investigate, he pushed me in and locked the door. Would’ve killed for some magical ability right then. Mostly so I could kill my brother. Painfully.” Though, in the long run, he knew being a mage conferred many more disadvantages than advantages in Thedas. Unless a mage happened to be Dalish, they were pretty much controlled and imprisoned by the Chantry, unless they wanted to spend their entire lives being hunted by templars as apostates or maleficarum. The only other option was to become a Warden, which gave some freedom, as long as you killed darkspawn, along with a death sentence in about thirty or so years. It was certainly not a life he’d choose for himself or wish on anyone else. Were he ever to be a parent, he definitely wouldn’t want his child to be a mage. Not unless the Chantry changed its ways, and he didn’t see that happening for the next thousand years at the very least. 

Unconsciously, his eyes flicked over to the rockfall, where Líadan had gotten quiet. He was forcing himself to assume she’d fallen asleep and not think the worst. It wasn’t working very well. They’d been at the digging for over two days. From what she said, and how much more clear her speech had gotten, she seemed to be doing better. She was even able to walk a little bit, which made passing water flasks and food easier. That, and the call of nature was easily answered opposite from where she normally sat in the cut-off section of the tunnel. It was something, she’d told them, especially since the deep wound on her leg hadn’t re-opened.

The first night had been the hardest, when they had to keep her awake because of the concussion. The confusion in her voice had been incredibly worrisome, especially when she ended up combining both Elvish and Fereldan in the same sentence and hadn’t realized it. Or when she said things and didn’t remember them, or drifted off into a daze that took several repetitions of her name to get her out of it. Admittedly, there’d been a point where he started becoming incoherent himself, and unwillingly falling asleep for a few seconds whenever she was answering a question he’d asked. Not that he wasn’t interested in her answers. He _was_. And she was being more open and honest than she’d been in the entire year that he’d known her. He felt a little guilty about that, since obviously the openness was being caused in part by her reactions to her injuries. But still. It was a veritable treasure trove of information, letting him see more and more about who she was, and why she acted the way she did at times. Why, for instance, she hated templars as much as Circle mages. Why she’d reacted so horribly to being conscripted into the Wardens. And that at one point in her life, she had been a very good archer.

“Really? Fergus? He always seems so calm,” said Anders. 

“Those are the ones you gotta look out for,” Oghren said, strolling back over to the rear of the cave.

Malcolm peered into the tunnel they’d managed to carve into the rockfall so far. Various roots arched up from the ground, and had woven together in a canopy to hold up the rock and dirt around and above. So far, it had done an admirable job, though he had no idea how long it would last. First they had used Anders’ arcane bolts and their bare hands until the snowstorm had waned. Then they retrieved tree branches from the clearing and carved crude shovels out of them and combined those with Anders’ magic. Brutal and lacking refinement, but fairly effective. “How close are we?” Malcolm asked when he noticed Oghren’s shadow looming over him. Well, as much as a dwarf’s shadow could loom, which wasn’t very much. Not that he’d tell Oghren that. He rather liked his kneecaps attached to his legs.

Oghren shoved him aside with his boot and looked. “About a foot, I’d say,” he said after a moment of squinting.

Malcolm looked expectantly over at Anders. “Well? It’s one foot. Isn’t your mana replenished enough to bore through that last foot without Oghren and me using our much slower shovels? I mean, since we warrior types are so useless, how about you be the super-mage you are and finish this?” He did his best to sound light-hearted, but he knew the other two could see right through the act.

The mage picked himself up from the ground and dusted off his robes. “Yes, I suppose I can get through a foot by now. Besides, someone has to show you two dumb lugs how it’s done.”

“Nugs,” said Oghren.

“Lugs,” Anders corrected, and then sighed. “Oh, nevermind. Out of the way. Both of you.” After setting himself, it took Anders only a short amount of time to finish the excavation. “There, done. Now we should be able to get her out and climb out of these Maker-forsaken mountains.”

But throughout the entire thing, Líadan had remained silent, and said nothing in response to the news.

Malcolm dropped to his hands and knees and stuck his head through the tunnel’s entrance. They’d carved it small, though, and his shoulders wouldn’t fit through, even if he wasn’t wearing armor. “Líadan,” he said. “Líadan!”

No answer. 

Scowling, he turned and looked between Anders and Oghren. Both of them were also too broad to fit through the tunnel. They’d made it to fit a lithe elf and no one else. The only other person who could’ve fit through it that’d been with them was Velanna. Who, of course, wasn’t there because they’d stupidly sent her with Alistair and Nathaniel. He cursed and sat up.

“Most likely, she’s just asleep,” said Anders. “We’ll just have to wait for her to wake up so she can crawl out on her own. At the worst, the others should arrive here, what, tomorrow? We’ll have Velanna crawl in and drag her out if we have to.”

Malcolm didn’t look at Anders, instead keeping his eyes on the escape tunnel’s small, dark opening. What if Anders wasn’t right? She could’ve opened up her wound again and passed out and be dead from blood loss and they wouldn’t even know. Or her head injury could’ve sent her into a coma like he’d been in, and without healing, that could lead to death, too. And if she died, he still wasn’t sure what he’d do with himself. Part of him just couldn’t comprehend a world without her, not after she’d unwittingly integrated herself into his life as a whole. How could he not have seen that happening?

Well, he realized, that was a simple answer—Morrigan. The witch had been the most important thing in his life back then... no. No, she hadn’t. If she _had_ been, he would have agreed to her request to do that ritual. Instead, his duty to protect Ferelden and Thedas had overrode the love he felt for her and, in the end, that choice had driven them apart. Except she had a role in it, too, one that she was still acting upon. Whatever compelled her to create that Old God child drove her still. He recognized it now, that as much as being a Warden was a duty to him, the plans she had for this god child was a duty to her. Perhaps what they had together hadn’t been a lie on her part, or his, but had been less important when compared to the larger scheme of things in both their lives. And since then, nothing had changed. Even if he could understand what Morrigan’s plans were, even if they turned out to be benevolent, he still had his duty. He still had _other_ feelings. He had responsibilities, as Fergus had brought up during their conversation in Highever. Even after he settled things with Morrigan, he had more things to come back to, more people to come back to, people that he couldn’t leave behind to join Morrigan in her future endeavors. Nor did he want to, something he hadn’t figured out until quite recently.

He still wanted to find her, and he certainly didn’t want her dead. He wanted things settled between them, an understanding of sorts reached so they both didn’t have these open wounds—if she even had wounds—plaguing them. But when he finished his duties here and in Kal’Hirol to go find Morrigan, he wasn’t sure if he could take Líadan with him, to subject her to that, to have to watch him—whatever he was to her—chase after an ex-lover. It would be awkward at best, painful at the most, for her. At least, that’s what he assumed, based on how he’d feel were the situation reversed. But he didn’t look forward to being separated from her, even if they remained just friends. She was... important, somehow, in ways he couldn’t even start to name. What surprised him is that he still had no idea how this—whatever it was—had happened. And now it would stop before they could even really begin to figure it out together. That moment on the ship, it had been a step. Though he knew he had his duty to the Wardens, if he believed only in that duty, he would have left her here, sealed within the tomb of the Deep Roads because the cave-in had sealed them shut fairly well. But he hadn’t been able to because he couldn’t imagine living with himself if he’d done so. Kal’Hirol could wait. And if the darkspawn from there attacked while they waited up here in these mountains, he would accept the blame, but he would not regret his actions. She was worth saving.

If she was still alive. His fingers reached out and brushed the stone above the tunnel’s entrance, as if reaching for her. She needed to wake up.

Oghren settled himself next to the fire and set to sharpening his battleaxe. “She’ll be fine. She’s a warrior. You’ll see.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow at the dwarf. “You know, that sounded like something Alistair would say.”

“Say that again and I’ll chop your sodding head off.”

“I’ll just keep any further thoughts to myself.”

“Smart lad.”

Anders looked from Malcolm to Oghren, looking as if he was about to make a derogatory comment about the dwarf, but he did a double-take on seeing Malcolm. “Okay, you know what? I can’t take it. Every time I actually see your hair, it’s all I can do not to burst into laughter. Even taking a very sharp dagger to it would help at this point.”

“Are you saying you want to do his hair?” asked Oghren.

“I’m not saying we should sit around _braiding_ it,” Anders shot back. “Not that you should criticize anyone about braids in their hair, since you braid your beard.”

“Beards are different. If you had a proper beard, I wouldn’t give you any guff for braiding it. Now, were you to braid that poncy ponytail of yours, you’d never hear the end of it from me. You’ve got hair like the swishy nug-licker had. All... pretty. And soft.”

“Soft? How would you know that?”

“I... no reason. Just a guess.” Oghren retrieved a knife from a sheath on his belt and handed it to the mage. “Here, use this one. It’s probably sharper than anything either of you have.” Then he fetched out the small pair of scissors he used to tidy up his beard, because no matter what Oghren insisted out loud about his beard, he was a dwarf and he was proud of how his beard looked. Even if there was food stuck in it. Malcolm had known that about Oghren for a very long time. The dwarf handed the scissors to Anders. “And, to be honest, the lad’s hair does look pretty bad. Wouldn’t want the lass dying of laughter when she sees him. Not that I don’t see why she wouldn’t anyway, but to each their own, I suppose.”

“Rather magnanimous of you, there, Oghren,” said Malcolm. “I’m touched. Really.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to this sodding mushy stuff. I just don’t like it when...” he trailed off, his eyes darting over to where Líadan was still trapped. “I just don’t like it. I’m going to take a peek outside while you two play with your hair.” With that, the dwarf got to his feet, rested his axe on his shoulder, and walked into the clearing.

Anders set to work on the remains of Malcolm’s hair, rendering it shorter than Malcolm had kept it in a very long time. His scalp felt cold. “It’s mostly even,” Anders pronounced. “I’m sure there’s someone at Highever who can do more with it, but all the singed parts are gone, and it’s all pretty much the same length. It doesn’t look half-bad, if I do say so myself.”

“New career?” Malcolm took off his gauntlets and ran curious hands over his head. Yes, definitely short. Shorter than Alistair’s even, but without the bit sticking up at the front. 

“And not use my magic for the greater good? Perish the thought.” Anders moved away and put the scissors and knife on Oghren’s pack. “Don’t forget about your promise to let me shoot lightning at fools.”

Oghren stepped back into the cave. “If you’re really intent on shooting lightning at fools, mage, why haven’t you hit the sodding pike-twirler yet?”

“Unlike you, he happens to be my king. If I were to hit him with lightning, that would be treason. I’d like to avoid treason, if I could. So no matter how foolish he might act, he remains lightning-free.”

“Can’t argue with that, I guess,” said Oghren, moving over to his pack and putting away the implements Anders had left out. 

Malcolm laughed a little. “Oghren, if you think Alistair is foolish, you would’ve hated the king before him.”

“Boys in the army said he was sodding ‘glorious.’ But, you know, the way they said it, it didn’t sound like a good thing.” Oghren stroked the braids of his beard. “Now, don’t get me wrong. The pike-twirler isn’t really foolish, at least most of the time. By all accounts, he’s turned out to be a decent king. But I’ve known him since he was just a plain old Warden, so I can call him foolish all I want. Too bad I can’t hit him with lightning, though.” His eyes slid to look over at the rockfall. “But she might. She’s already hit you... how many times?”

Malcolm shrugged and leaned against the stones behind him. “I’m not discussing it.”

“Twice is what I heard,” said Anders. “Though, there was this moment when I really thought she was going to hit him a third time, very recently.”

“Oh?” said Oghren.

Malcolm barely resisted the urge to sit up straight. Instead, he tried to act nonchalant, but had a sneaking suspicion that Anders might have seen what’d happened on the ship from Amaranthine. And if he _had_ , he didn’t want _Oghren_ to know, because that would be, well, terrible. But if he acted as alarmed as he felt, that would make things come out a whole lot sooner. “There are plenty of other times she might’ve hit me, Anders,” he said. “Pretty much all the time, really.” 

“One specific incident comes to mind. On a certain ship. Now, the wave crashing over the side and hitting the two of you really did a good job of hitting you with literal cold water. But, I think up until that point you were both liking that kiss. I’m just saying.”

The dwarf’s eyes lit up and a grin appeared under his beard. “Aye?” He looked over at Malcolm. “You made a move, did you? Good on ya! Too bad about the water though. But now you’ve got a start on getting to that boot-knocking I’ve been telling you two to do.”

Malcolm held his burning face in his hands. “I’d like to die now, thanks.”

“If I’m not allowed to die then you aren’t allowed to die, either,” came Líadan’s voice, weaker than normal, but _there_ , from the caved-in section. 

“If you could crawl out of there, that would be all kinds of fantastic,” Malcolm replied, and turned so that he was in front of the tunnel’s entrance, entirely forgetting his embarrassment. Because, when it came right down to it, it didn’t matter. She was awake and _alive_. That’s what mattered. 

“You got through? That would explain the ridiculous amount of light, I suppose,” she said, scraping noises in the background. “Here, I’m sending my pack through, since it survived. My staff, not so much. That’s actually what stabbed me.”

“She sounds quite lucid,” said Anders. “A very good sign.”

The pack scraped at the sides of the tunnel as Líadan pushed it through. “Not so much for you, human. I heard what you said, and if you remember, I threatened you with a great deal of violence should you speak of it. And you did. I keep my promises, you know.” 

“As long as you’re alive to carry them out, do whatever you wish to me,” Anders replied.

“Now you’re just taking the fun out of it.” She pushed the pack one more time. “The fresh air coming in from out there is absolutely wonderful. ”

Malcolm was able to grab the pack and pull it the rest of the way out. Then he passed it to Anders, who set it against one of the walls. “Your turn,” Malcolm said.

Oghren set up on the opposite side of the entrance from Malcolm, ready to help him pull Líadan out once she got close enough. Anders cast a quick spell and his staff lit up. He held it at an angle that cast light into the tunnel so they and Líadan could see. When the light first caught on Líadan’s eyes, he felt himself smiling, realizing that he must look like some sort of grinning idiot, but he didn’t care. She was alive. 

She winced at the light, but plunged onward, crawling forward on her belly, and using her forearms and elbows to pull herself forward. Loose dirt and rocks started falling through the woven root canopy, and Anders quickly cast a shield spell over Líadan in case something heavier fell. Then her hands were within reach. Malcolm and Oghren grasped them and hauled her forward as gently as they could, pulling her into the outer cave. She rolled onto her back and blinked rapidly at the sudden onslaught of full daylight. Malcolm and Anders knelt near her head.

When she went to sit up, Anders scolded her and pushed her carefully back down. “You need healing, remember? We’ve already pushed your luck pretty far with this injury.” With that mention, the mage’s hands took on their healing glow and prodded at Líadan’s injured leg. “Andraste’s ass! Your _staff_ did this? You’re incredibly lucky you didn’t bleed out.”

“That’s reassuring,” she said, raising her head a little to watch him work.

“And it’s nearly reopened! Well, not anymore. But you know what I mean.” His hands, done healing her leg, went to her head. Prodding at her scalp yielded a pained gasp from her. “Yes, that would be a skull fracture there. I’m surprised you’re as lucid as you are.” Another burst of magic flowed into her body, and then Anders pronounced it healed. “You’ll have to take it easy for a few days,” he said. “Being a Warden means you’ll finish healing and recover your energy and stamina quickly, so there’s that. But you’ll still need to rest at least a few days once we get out of these mountains and to Highever. I’m sure the teyrn will let us stay. He likes us.”

“I don’t think he likes _me_ at the moment,” Malcolm said to Anders, though he kept his eyes on Líadan, barely believing that she was out and safe. She was a sight, covered in dirt and grime and blood, both darkspawn and hers. He could think of only a few times where she had looked more ragged—and each of those times had been during the Blight—but she was alive. 

“True. You, he probably wants to kill. Me? He still likes me, I bet. And Oghren. And Líadan. Just not you. Or the king, I suspect.” Anders sounded like he was smiling, but Malcolm didn’t look over to check. “Oghren, grab some of those empty flasks. We need to go melt down some snow for water,” said Anders.

“Yes, _that_ was subtle, mage. But, aye, I’ll come with you.”

Malcolm heard the two other men collect flasks, and then walk out of the shallow tunnel. As their booted footsteps faded, he reached out towards Líadan with his right hand, wondering if she noticed the faint tremor he was certain he felt. His hand stopped short of touching her hair, hovering uneasily for a moment. Then he brushed his fingertips against her cheek, along the curve of her tattoo. Which, he realized, he could barely see through the dust. But he knew exactly where it was. There were tracks through the dirt, descending in trails from her eyes. He raised an eyebrow. “Were you crying?”

Her hand reached up and gently grasped his, stilling it against her cheek. “To be fair, I was suffering from the side effects of a concussion. I wasn’t in my right mind. I can’t be held accountable for my actions.”

He smirked. “That wasn’t an answer to my question.”

“But it _was_ an answer. Besides, it was a really stupid question, because obviously I was crying. I can’t exactly hide that thanks to how dirty my face is. Creators, I think I would kill for a bath.” Then her hand let go of his and she reached up and rubbed her fingers through his shortened hair. “What happened to your hair?”

Malcolm shifted, bending lower so she wouldn’t have to strain so high. “Um, it got burned. Some of it. See, there was a dragon, and we fought it, because that’s what we do, I guess, as a side job when we aren’t killing darkspawn.” He knew he was babbling, but couldn’t seem to make himself stop. “Anyway, my shield was buried, I forgot I didn’t have it, dragon breathed fire, and yet one more time in my life, I was set on fire. Anders healed the burn, but apparently there’s no magic in existence that he knows of that can save singed hair. Oghren lent him the scissors he uses to trim his beard and, while we were waiting for you to wake up again, Anders decided to make my hair less... lopsided. They told me it looked awful. Even Oghren thought so, which means it must’ve been pretty bad.”

“I think it suits you,” she said. “Either that or my mind is still addled, which is a distinct possibility since I haven’t even been tempted to hit you with lightning yet.” Her eyes flicked over for a moment to the mouth of the cave. “ _Anders_ , however, is a different story.” Then she looked back at him, and her eyes narrowed slightly. “You have that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“The one you get when you’re about to do something stupid. I’ve seen it before. As in, on a certain ship right before an event that Anders somehow witnessed.” She moved her hand from his scalp to his cheek, mimicking his movements from before. “We talked about this. Nothing has changed. We can’t—”

He acted. Something _had_ changed and he needed to help her understand that as well as he did. Or at least acknowledge it, because he’d seen in her eyes that she wasn’t entirely convinced of the words she spoke out loud. So he leaned over, and while she was in mid sentence, he kissed her. She stiffened in shock for the barest second, and then relaxed into it, confirming his suspicions that she felt exactly as he did. Her hand moved from his cheek to curl against the hair at the nape of his neck, and then they were cupping the back of his head and pulling him forward. Closer. And then she wasn’t merely relaxed so much as she was active, returning the kiss, deepening it with a force far stronger than he’d initiated. A thrill flared through him when he felt  her tongue against his, once again wondering why they hadn’t done this _sooner_. And then he remembered that she’d just been injured and healed and needed rest and things really couldn’t keep progressing right then. Reluctantly, he forced himself to slowly pull away, but not entirely, instead resting his forehead on hers. It didn’t matter about the dirt and the blood anyway, because he was just as, if not more, grimy.

She caught her breath as he did the same. As she did, her smile faded, and the look he recognized as self-doubt formed around her eyes. “And what about Morrigan? That hasn’t changed.” When he didn’t answer right away, she moved her arms so that they were under his. “Here, make yourself useful while you think and help me up.”

He did so, easing her back so she could rest against the cave’s wall while she sat. But he remained crouched near her, and reached out again. He tucked a piece of hair behind her elegantly pointed ear, and left his fingers resting against the skin of her cheek. “She doesn’t matter.”

“As much as I’d like to believe you, I hardly think that’s true. Or fair, to any of us.”

He sighed. “That came out wrong. What I meant was that...” He wrangled his thoughts together, trying to figure out a way to say them properly without messing it up more than he already had. “When we were at Highever, Fergus asked me a question. He asked me if you were more important to me than anything else in my life. And I realized, some time later, that even if you were only a friend to me—which you are not, by the way, only a friend—that I honestly couldn’t imagine you not being around. And then when the cave-in happened, and you were trapped and maybe dead, but the Deep Roads were effectively sealed off, if my duty as a Warden was the most important thing to me, I would have left you. Because tunneling like we did, it partly _un_ did what we came up here to do and set us back on our mission to Kal’Hirol.” She started to object, but he pressed onward. “That didn’t matter to me. It just didn’t. Because I didn’t much care to go and do that duty if it meant I left you for dead in the name of it.”

She remained unconvinced. “But you would have done the same for any of us, not just me.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I realized that... you’re important in a lot of ways that I can’t even begin to understand. And I really can’t grasp the idea of you not being around anymore. I wouldn’t want that. And...” he trailed off again, trying to find the words to explain Morrigan. “As for Morrigan, I can’t be with her. Nor do I want to be. We’re too different, her and I. Setting aside what she did to us before the battle with the archdemon, she has whatever it is she’s planning with that Old God child. She has a duty she views as far more important than me or anything else in Thedas. I can respect that, I think, even if I disagree with the plan itself. What she felt might not have been an act and I suspect I’ll never know. But her and I is something that can’t... it can’t work. It would never work, because like she has her duties, I have mine.” He shrugged. “Maybe it really was infatuation, I don’t know. I think in some way I’ll always love her. I mean, I truly have no wish to see her come to harm, and if I could, I would protect her from it. But, to be with her? I couldn’t do it. And she wouldn’t want it, or she would have stayed.”

Líadan arched an eyebrow. “So I’m second place? Are you saying that you’re settling instead of going after the woman you truly wish for?” She sounded both hurt and angry, a dangerous combination with her. 

He groaned in frustration. “No. No, that’s _not_ what I’m saying. She and I... we had what we had. I’m still going to go look for her after all of this because I want to settle things between us, to bandage my wounds, so to speak. I want to know what she’s up to, if it will be a threat to Thedas or not. I don’t want the templars or Tevinters or the darkspawn or the Weisshaupt Grey Wardens to get ahold of her, because, most likely, that would mean she’d be killed. I’ve learned that I can go on with my life without her, and can imagine a living a life without her in it. I’m honestly not so sure with you, and I don’t know when that feeling happened. I don’t know what changed. But this—whatever this is—feels more solid. Feels right. Like it will amount to something, if we let it. I’m not giving up on Morrigan to settle for you, if that’s what you’re hearing. If it is, it means I’m not explaining myself properly.” He paused, and then said, “Look. We all pretty much know that somehow, she’s leaving Thedas if she lives, right?”

Her eyes narrowed a bit in confusion, but Líadan nodded. “Yes.”

“Right. Here’s the thing—even if she asked me to go with her, I wouldn’t. Why? I wouldn’t _want_ to because... because I wouldn’t be able to leave you behind.”

A smirk tugged at one side of her mouth, and he realized that she at least understood the gist of what he’d been trying to say. “Aw, are you saying you’d miss me?” she asked. Of course, remaining serious for long stretches of time was a problem they both possessed. This conversation, he realized, was probably the longest serious discussion they’d ever had between just the two of them. He was surprised that neither of them had cracked a joke sooner.

But some of the seriousness remained with him, even as much as he wanted to throw it off in favor of lightheartedness. “More than I’d like to think about,” he told her. 

Her smirk widened into a smile, even as a certain sorrow glinted in her eyes. “I understand,” she said quietly. Her hands moved from where they’d rested on his arms, moving up to grab his torn tabard and urge him forward. Then her lips were on his, almost shy in how softly they pressed, and then the shyness went away. In its stead came insistence and entrance, mouths opening and tongues clashing in revelry of being alive and safe and okay. 

“Ha! You owe me a sovereign, Sparklefingers,” Oghren announced from the cave’s entrance.

Líadan snorted, breaking away from Malcolm as she gave in to a fit of giggles. 

“Fine,” said Anders, scowling and pulling a coin out of the pouch at his hip. “I thought they would have kissed since they’d _done_ that before, but I honestly didn’t think it would’ve been _that_ kind of kiss already, seeing as they’ve been so agonizingly slow about everything.” But amusement and relief at Líadan’s well being lurked behind the scowl.

Oghren accepted the coin. “Shows what you know. You and the other new Wardens always seem to forget that I’ve known them longer than any of you. At least it makes me coin. I’m good with that.” Somehow, the dwarf and the mage had managed to kill a few snow hares while they were out, and Oghren held their cleaned and gutted carcasses in his other hand. “Found dinner. I’ll get ‘em roasting.”

“Provided Líadan feels up to it, it will be safe to start descending tomorrow if you’d like,” Anders said, tossing a quick burst of flame at the dying fire, and making it roar back to life. Then he found a seat next to it and passed freshly filled flasks of water over to Líadan and Malcolm. 

“I’m fine to leave right now,” said Líadan.

Anders frowned at her. “Oh no you aren’t. Besides, night is falling right now anyway, so we can’t leave yet. Plus,” he pointed at the hares Oghren was putting on a spit, “dinner.”

Her stomach growled loudly, ending any other chance of argument she might’ve offered. After a moment, she said, “So... this dragon. We don’t have to worry about it returning, do we? It really just flew away?”

“It really did,” Anders said. “I think it was my blizzard spell that did it.”

“Or the _real_ blizzard that happened to strike around the same time,” Malcolm said, sitting next to Líadan and resting against the wall. He wasn’t sure if he consciously kept his shoulder in contact with hers, but he was of no mind to move it. She apparently agreed, because she leaned into it and tilted her head to rest against it.

“Or the fact that I chopped off its tail,” said Oghren as he started turning the spit.

“But is it coming _back_?” Líadan asked.

Malcolm shrugged his unoccupied shoulder. “Um. I don’t know? Maybe it’s hibernating. Do dragons hibernate?”

“I recall reading at the tower that they do.” Anders stroked the stubble on his cheeks. “Most likely, yes. So it seems we don’t have to worry about it coming back until spring. Which would be about the time we should get people up here and investigating the Tevinter towers out there, too.”

“I kind of wonder where the other branch of the Deep Roads goes,” said Malcolm. “It heads towards the northeast, so I’m a bit concerned about where it ends.”

“We could check it out in the spring. You know, when we come up here to kill the dragon, because I’m sure you won’t just let it continue to flounce around up here,” Anders said.

Líadan frowned. “I’d prefer to never see this place again. Or the Deep Roads.”

“Sodding Deep Roads,” said Oghren.

No one disagreed.


	42. Chapter 42

**Chapter 42**

“With the allegiance of Arl Myrddin, Calenhad began his rise to greatness.

Some of Myrddin’s allies also pledged allegiance, but most thought him foolhardy: a boy commoner was to lead them and become king? Over the years that followed, however, Calenhad would prove himself worthy of Myrddin’s trust. With each victory, he won over more men to his command and his reputation as a man of honor spread. Eventually, during his campaign against the lowland bannorn, he met his most infamous friend and companion, the vaunted warrior Lady Shayna. Calenhad married the famously beautiful daughter of Myrddin, Mairyn, and his firm belief in the ways of the Chantry became the staple of his court. In a time when the Chantry was still new to the lands and courts following Andraste held the majority of the power in Ferelden, Calenhad began to solidify the nation as one in line with the other nations around it. This piety eventually won over to Calenhad those faithful in Ferelden who had been waiting for such a leader.

With Lady Shayna at his side, Calenhad was unstoppable, and by 5:42 Exalted, the war for Ferelden had come down to one final battle against the collected forces of Simeon, Teyrn of Denerim and the most potent nobleman in the land. Calenhad persuaded the Circle of Magi to come to his aid, as well as the Ash Warriors, and in the Battle of White Valley, he famously defeated Teyrn Simeon and united the nation.

During the battle, Simeon nearly killed Calenhad, but Lady Shayna intervened and took the wound for him, slaying Simeon. Calenhad was crowned king in Denerim that year, with Mairyn his Queen, but he spent much of the months that followed nursing Lady Shayna back to health.

King Calenhad’s Ferelden was peaceful for a time, with the Chantry spreading quickly under the King’s guidance. Everywhere the king and queen went, they were surrounded by cheering crowds. The common folk celebrated Calenhad as one of their own who had achieved the impossible, and trade opened up with many outside lands for the first time in Ferelden’s existence. But, as with many such golden ages, it was not to last.”

—from _The Legend of Calenhad_ by Brother Herren, Chantry scholar, 8:10 Blessed

**Malcolm**

Snow once again drifted down from the steel-colored clouds in the sky. Malcolm walked quietly into the clearing, his crunching footsteps muffled by the newness of the snowfall. The early dawn sounds around him all seemed muted, a normally quiet birdcall seemed more like a shout within the high walls of the cirque, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. At least it wasn’t a crow. If it had been, he very well might have yelled in surprise. 

He turned his head suddenly toward the gap that led to the mountain trail, thinking he’d just heard the clanking of heavy armor and measured treads of heavier footsteps. The taint tugged a little at his blood, so it could be Wardens or an unlucky, tainted traveler. But he drew his sword from its scabbard anyway, preferring to play it safe since he’d neglected to do so for the past two weeks. He slowly advanced towards the gap, sword held loosely at his side, but ready. 

Líadan’s voice seemed to ring out from the cave’s entrance. “What—”

He held up a hand to signal for quiet, and hoped that there _were_ people walking up the trail, because if this proved to be nothing, she would kill him for that. For the moment, she fell silent, but he didn’t even need to look behind him to know she was already catching up to him with her daggers out. Most likely, Oghren and Anders weren’t far behind, as they’d been preparing to leave soon in the first place.

The clanking got closer and louder, now unmistakable, and soon they heard snippets of conversation. Then there was barking, and a mabari tore between the cliffs of the gap, snow flying in all directions as it raced over and pounced onto Malcolm. He fell backward under the enthusiastic dog’s weight, landing on the snow with a solid thud, and tried to push the dog away before he became entirely covered with slobber. 

“Look at you!” came Alistair’s voice from somewhere near Malcolm’s right. He still couldn’t see well, thanks to Gunnar’s bulk. “You’re alive!’

Malcolm managed to shove the dog’s head away for a second, allowing him to catch a glimpse of Alistair pulling Líadan into a crushing hug, and spinning her around like he’d done when he’d greeted her at Highever. It brought he same protests as it had before, but excluding punches, as Alistair was armored this time.

“Hey, be careful, you might break her again,” Anders said. “I just got her all fixed up yesterday. Don’t ruin my work.”

Alistair released his fellow Warden, whereupon she gave him a shove to the chest out of indignance. “I’m not delicate and breakable.”

Anders pursed his lips. “No, not convinced. Your head was fairly broken yesterday. And it could still be broken, considering your choice in men.”

Líadan’s sudden glare towards Anders was interrupted by a happy bark from Gunnar. Then the dog abandoned his master and ran over to the elf, tail wagging hard enough to shake his entire hindquarters. But the dog showed his intelligence and didn’t jump onto Líadan like he’d done with Malcolm. Instead, Gunnar contented himself with butting his head into her legs, and then leaning his body up against her as she scratched behind his ears.

“Her choice in men?” Alistair repeated to Anders.

“Aye,” said Oghren. “We’ll tell you later. Good story.”

Malcolm cleaned his face off as best he could with the tattered remains of his tabard. “Sod you all,” he grumbled.

Alistair grinned at him, and then dipped his head forward. “Nice hair.”

“Also my work, thank you very much,” said Anders.

More clatters from the pass cut short further teasing as Velanna and Nathaniel walked through, accompanied by a ten man contingent of Highever soldiers, even more dwarves, and Fergus. An all at once relieved and very irritated-looking Fergus.

Anders took the moment to add, “Did what I could with it after the dragon singed it, but I didn’t have much to work with. It was a sight to behold before that, though, I’ll tell you that much. I’ll have to watch myself in battles with dragons from now on, though. Better than I did.” He smoothed his hair down with his hand. “Honestly, who knew that high dragons could be so dangerous to your hair?” 

Fergus looked from Alistair to Anders and back again, eyes growing wider with every word. “Dragon? What’s this about a dragon? Alistair, _your Majesty_ , you certainly did not mention a bloody high dragon.” It was an unspoken rule that Fergus never called Alistair ‘your Majesty’ unless he was frustrated. Or angry. Particularly angry. Like right now.

“Um, well. There was one. And... it’s not here anymore. Ha. As you can see. Hibernating. Probably. I think.” Alistair squinted in thought, and then looked at the other Wardens. “Do dragons do that?”

“I believe we reached the consensus that they do,” Anders answered.

Malcolm did nothing but gape at his elder foster brother. _Fergus_. He’d assumed he would’ve had the trip from Drake’s Fall back to Highever to figure out what to say, and more importantly, how to sincerely apologize to his older brother. Instead, Fergus was here already. And glaring at him. And smiling at him. He didn’t think that was even possible to do both at the same time and mean it, but Fergus was doing it right at that moment. Malcolm slowly got to his feet and forced himself to face his brother, knowing he had to accept the consequences of his monumentally stupid decision to allow Alistair to accompany them.

Fergus, after giving up on Alistair providing any sort of useful answer, covered the ground between them with long strides. He grabbed Malcolm by the shoulders and pulled him into a bear hug. “Thank the Maker you’re alive.” Then he stepped back and looked him in the eye. “Because Eamon is going to kill you and I won’t be far behind.”

“Saw _that_ coming,” said Líadan. 

“I take it you told him it was a stupid idea?” Fergus asked as he smiled warmly at her, also clearly relieved that she was alive as well.

“I brought that fact to his attention,” she replied, shifting uneasily from foot to foot and decidedly _not_ looking Fergus in the eye.

“Really?” said Malcolm, looking over at her. “Does ‘on second thought, I think we should bring him’ ring a bell?” He’d pitched his voice higher in a horrible imitation of Líadan’s voice. “Because that’s what you ended up saying. You thought it would be fun to bring him because he would annoy Velanna.” 

Líadan moved her glare from Anders to Malcolm.

“Which he did,” Velanna pointed out.

“I’ll admit, that part was kind of fun,” said Anders.

Fergus, who was usually inured to the oft-irreverent brand of humor the Grey Wardens of Ferelden possessed, looked at them as if they’d all lost their minds. “Do any of you have the slightest idea how serious this is?”

Malcolm looked from Fergus to the soldiers and dwarves and back again. “I’ve a vague idea, but I’m not sure this is the best time to discuss it. We need to get these people going on sealing up the Deep Roads entrance properly, and then head back to Highever.” _To get yelled at by Eamon_ , he didn’t add.

“Yes, you’re right about that,” said Fergus, his tone becoming quieter. “We need to get back to Highever as soon as possible. There’s more than just the situation between you and Alistair and Eamon, and it’s actually even more dire. I’ll tell you about it once we’re back on the trail and not around all these other people.” He motioned towards the milling soldiers and dwarves. “They’re all yours.”

Though he wondered what else could possibly be even more serious than the Chancellor of Ferelden resigning his position or killing the current monarch—or both—Malcolm didn’t ask. Instead, he found the captains for both the dwarves and the Highever soldiers and told them the situation. The soldiers set to making a fortified camp, while the dwarves followed Malcolm into the cave. 

After studying the cave-in and surrounding area for a few minutes, the dwarven captain said, “We can collapse this tunnel and reinforce it to last against darkspawn tunneling until spring, at least. Then we’ll have to come back once the weather has settled and install proper sealing doors. Otherwise, the darkspawn will just tunnel through every year.”

Malcolm nodded. “We’ll do that, then. We have to come back in the spring, anyway, to kill the dragon.”

The dwarf snapped his head up to look at Malcolm, obviously startled. “I’m sorry, did you say dragon?”

“Sodding big one, too,” said Oghren.

“Bloody surface. I hate it,” mumbled another one of the dwarves. “All this sky! It’s just not right. And now dragons?”

After giving the mumbling dwarf a knowing look, Oghren glanced over at the dwarven captain. “New surfacer, I take it?”

“Aye,” the captain replied. “Eventually he’ll realize that no one falls into the sky.”

“That’s because sodding _dragons_ will swoop down and pluck me from the ground!” cried the complainer.

“Not until spring,” Malcolm said cheerfully. “It’s hibernating right now.”

The captain shifted his look from his worker to Malcolm. “Not helping, Warden.”

Malcolm cleared his throat. “Right, then. Well, you folks get to work doing... whatever it is that you’re going to do to secure this entrance. I’ll just, um, get out of your way.” As he strode out of the cave, Oghren walked beside him.

“You’re learning,” Oghren said. “Little on the slow side, but you’re getting there.”

He didn’t bother replying. Instead, he found the guard captain and explained that the soldiers would indeed be staying in the cirque for a few days while he dwarves finished up. That done, he rounded up the rest of the Wardens and Fergus, and the group of them set off down the trail out of Drake’s Fall. They left without any Highever guards, as the company of six Grey Wardens and the king, who was also a Warden, was protection enough for anyone, including Fergus. That, and Malcolm suspected that matters that needed to be discussed would be easier to keep quiet if there wasn’t anyone around to accidentally overhear. Or overhear at all, really. 

As they descended, the snowfall tapered off, and then stopped entirely. Silence reigned for most of the morning, no one willing to broach subjects that couldn’t really be taken care of until they reached Highever. Though, Malcolm had to admit, his curiosity was coming pretty close to killing him. Then there was the fact that he could actually walk next to Líadan because she was very much not dead. Of course, she was intermittently glaring at him for ratting her out to Fergus earlier. But when she wasn’t glaring, she was smiling, if small and apparently attempting to keep it hidden from the other Wardens for a variety of reasons. He didn’t question it, and he certainly wasn’t going to tease her about it yet. Not when she was already a bit irritated with him, not that he didn’t entirely deserve it. Gunnar stayed right at Líadan’s side, as close to her as a shadow. Malcolm knew the mabari stayed close because the dog understood that Líadan was recovering from being hurt. That, and the dog liked her. He was starting to suspect Gunnar liked her more than him, or at the very least, was as close to imprinting on her as possible without the actual imprinting. He didn’t mind. It meant Líadan had another friend on her side. And, out of all of them, Gunnar was actually the best at getting her to agree to something when she was being stubborn. 

He would’ve preferred a bit less of the glaring, though, even _if_ he deserved it.

After the food was gone, Malcolm gave up on trying to control his curiosity and caught up with Fergus and Alistair at the head of the line. Líadan dropped back to walk with Anders and Oghren, though Malcolm suspected it wasn’t so much ‘walk with’ as it was ‘threaten to do horrible things to them if they blabbed.’ Judging by the rather pale cast to Anders’ face and Oghren’s vaguely amused look, it seemed his supposition was true. He walked quietly alongside Fergus for a minute before he finally took a breath and asked, “What’s going on?”

Fergus sighed. “Eamon’s angry.”

“That was kind of a given.”

“No, I mean, he is _incredibly_ angry. Remember that part, before you left, when Alistair asked if he could come along, and Eamon said he’d resign if Alistair did? Eamon might actually be sticking to that. I’m serious. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him like this. Part of it, I suppose, is that he was also very worried.”

“Worried that his precious Theirin bloodline will end,” Alistair muttered darkly. “He’s ridiculously obsessed with it, and he isn’t even a Theirin.”

“I’m honestly not so sure it’s just about that,” said Fergus as he rubbed at his forehead with his thumb. It was a habit Malcolm had observed in him since they were children, something Fergus did whenever he was faced with something particularly tough to figure out. “Granted, yes, Eamon is such a staunch royalist that it _is_ that to some degree. And part of me can’t blame him, because there are no other Theirins aside from the two of you, and you _both_ went on a very dangerous mission. And don’t try to tell me it was routine, because it wasn’t. Nothing that involves the Deep Roads is routine, even if you’re a Grey Warden.”

“I’ll grant you that one,” said Malcolm. He had to, as Fergus was right. Even investigating the Deep Roads below the Vigil wasn’t routine, as evidenced by Malcolm’s injury the first time they’d been down there. Couldn’t argue much when a ten-minute trip to the Deep Roads ended with you unconscious for a week.

Fergus nodded, and dropped his hand from his forehead to let it ride on the pommel of the Cousland sword at his hip. “Good. Anyway, the two of you, out of many people in Ferelden, should know exactly how dangerous for the country it is for you to be put into mortal danger at the same time. Remember, Cailan died without an heir, setting up for Loghain’s power grab—or whatever it was he was doing. Not the time to talk about Loghain, at the moment, but you see my point. _Both_ of you doing something this dangerous is practically begging for the same sort of thing to happen all over again. Without a clear line of succession, you know the Bannorn will fight over the throne. You can’t deny it.”

“Well, we could,” said Alistair. “We just wouldn’t be right.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Fergus half-smirked, despite how visibly frustrated he was with the two of them. “The other thing is that Eamon, despite what you might think, Malcolm, has a great amount of guilt he’s trying to work through in terms of how he failed in raising Alistair. And, well, Alistair’s dying and untimely death would put quite a damper on his ability to make up for it. Not that he’s doing such a great job apologizing right now, but still. What it comes down to is that he’s _worried_. And he’s worried about a lot of different things. Now, some things,” Fergus glanced pointedly back at Líadan, “aren’t things he should worry about. Other things, like the king convincing his younger brother that it’s totally acceptable to go off gallivanting as Wardens because ‘it would be like old times’ _is_ a valid concern.”

“How did you know exactly what I said?” Alistair shot an accusatory look at Malcolm. “Did you tell him?”

“When would I have told him? You’re the one who’s spent a few days with him. Maybe you tattled on yourself.”

“Having grown up with Malcolm, and having spent these past months helping to advise you, I know you, Alistair,” said Fergus. “No one had to tell me what sort of argument you’d try to use to convince him.”

“Wasn’t why I agreed,” Malcolm found himself saying.

“Then why did you agree?” Alistair asked.

“Because he felt guilty,” Fergus answered for Malcolm. Then he looked over at his brother. “Am I right?”

Malcolm shrugged. “Pretty much.”

Alistair’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Why would you feel guilty?”

“Because I made you king, that’s why. You’re stuck in Denerim most of the time, dealing with matters at court, and I’m still out being a Warden. And you _liked_ being a Warden, and not so much the king. I thought you needed something more real to do, something more physical.” Malcolm frowned, recalling some of Fergus’s earlier words, and looked over at Fergus. “We weren’t gallivanting, though.”

“Call it whatever you want, then. I know, I know. Not really gallivanting, and actually incredibly important to the safety of Highever and Ferelden. However, you’re lucky that you’re even _allowed_ to remain an active Warden, Malcolm. Until Alistair has children, you’re the heir. You should be trying to stay out of danger as much as he should.”

Malcolm’s eyes widened in alarm. “You’re not going to insist that I take a break from the Wardens, are you? Because Weisshaupt would object. A lot. Vociferously, even.”

“Nice word,” said Alistair.

“I thought so,” Malcolm replied.

Fergus sighed. “No, no one is going to force that issue. For now, anyway. But pull another stunt like this and I can’t make any promises. This country has been through too much instability already.” He cursed. “And now I sound like Eamon. Thanks for that.”

“So, how much of you is pissed because of what we did and how much of you is pissed because you had to put up with Eamon when he found out?” Malcolm asked, realizing that Fergus somehow wasn’t as angry as he’d thought he’d be. Either that, or he’d already worked out most of his anger, most likely on Alistair. Or there was something else bothering him more than any anger he might have with his younger foster brother.

“I’d say about half and half,” Fergus replied, but with a wry grin replacing the scowl on his face. Then the grin quickly faded. “There’s also another problem that has me much more preoccupied with it than I could being angry at either of you.”

“You didn’t mention anything before,” said Alistair.

“I wanted to reach Malcolm and the others first, make sure Líadan was still alive, before I said something. Besides, you neglected to mention a sodding high dragon, so I think that makes us even.” Fergus blew a long, uneasy breath through his lips, and then said, “There’s a party of templars waiting at Highever Castle.”

Malcolm quickly looked back at the Wardens walking behind them. Specifically, the three mages. At the rear of the group, Velanna chatted—was that _amiably_?—with Nathaniel. In the middle, Anders was grumbling something in Oghren’s direction and sporting a particularly disgusted look on his face. Líadan walked next to Anders, but noticed Malcolm’s glance and raised an eyebrow in his direction, asking him what was the matter. He offered a slight shrug. The elf frowned, said something to Anders, and then started jogging up to the front.

Fergus noticed Malcolm’s look backward. “The templars aren’t after any of them,” he said. Then he nodded in greeting to Líadan as she caught up and fell into step next to Malcolm. 

“Templars where?” she asked, not even bothering with politeness.

“Highever,” Malcolm said. Gunnar, who’d followed Líadan, shoved his head under Malcolm’s hand for a scratch.

Líadan frowned. “Weren’t they at Highever in the first place? Weren’t there even some there when we left?”

“These are new ones,” said Fergus. “They’re from Orlais. Straight from the Divine is what they’re claiming. They’re led by the Knight-Commander of Val Royeaux himself, apparently.”

“Thierry?” asked Alistair.

“Yes.” Fergus’s head snapped around to the king. “How did you know that?”

Malcolm sighed. “We’ve had a run-in before.”

“A run-in,” Fergus repeated. “Let me guess. Weapons were drawn?”

“But no one died,” Alistair said. “Which is good news. But there’s bad news coming from you, I take it. Who are they after?”

“Malcolm.”

He rolled his eyes. “They were after me before and they returned to Orlais without information _or_ me, if you’ll remember. They just want to know about Morrigan and I’m not going to help them get themselves killed. We’ll just explain to them again that the Wardens don’t answer to anyone and that’s that. I’m not an apostate mage, so they can’t just haul me in. Even if I was, I’m still a Grey Warden, which means I’d be out of the Chantry’s control. But I’m not, so that doesn’t matter.”

Fergus rubbed at his forehead with his thumb again, and muttered something to himself that Malcolm couldn’t quite catch. Then he asked, “Was your mother a mage?”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “I... yes. Why?”

“Because somehow they’ve found out that your mother was a mage. And they’re claiming that you’re really an apostate mage yourself who has just been hiding it well. They’re concerned, so they say, about the heir presumptive to the Fereldan throne being a mage.”

Líadan started laughing, not bothering to stifle herself at all. “That... that is _absurd_ ,” she managed to say through giggles. “Malcolm? A mage? Are they out of their minds?”

He gave her a half-glare. “I’m almost offended, you know, at how amused you find this because of how bad I am with the arcane.” He nearly mentioned that Morrigan would’ve found it just as funny. She’d been laughing enough when he’d told her that his mother was a mage. But for him to be accused of being one? Absolutely ridiculous. 

Fergus, however, didn’t seem to share in their amusement. At all. “They seemed quite serious about the matter,” he said. “They’ve paperwork saying they’re to bring you to the Divine in Val Royeaux to be evaluated. It even has the Divine’s seal.”

“That isn’t how it works. The templars are supposed to just take you to the nearest Circle if they think you’re a mage,” said Alistair, sounding annoyed. “Then they test you. Granted, I can’t think of a single case of a child being brought to the Tower and turning out not to be a mage, but that’s how it’s done. They just don’t bring mages or suspected mages to the Divine. If anything, they _keep_ mages away from the Divine. They’re only trying to use an excuse to bring Malcolm to Val Royeaux so that they can question him however they want.”

“They said they’re going to inform the Grand Cleric about Malcolm being a mage and how it’s heresy that he’s the heir presumptive,” Fergus said.

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “But I’m _not_ _a_ _mage_. Has someone pointed this out to them yet? For Andraste’s sake, I have templar abilities. Has anyone ever heard of a mage being a templar? The two skill sets don’t exactly mix.”

“Best if we not tell them that bit about you having templar abilities.” Alistair rubbed at the back of his neck, a sign of his nervousness. “Since I taught you and all, and I may or may not have promised the Grand Cleric that I wouldn’t teach anyone after Duncan conscripted me.”

“It was a Blight. They were extenuating circumstances. I doubt they’ll get that upset.”

Alistair lifted an eyebrow. “No? Need I remind you that they’re so desperate to get information about Morrigan that they’re declaring you an apostate when you’re nearly twenty-one, when you’ve been in the public view for pretty much all your life, and you’re a Grey—”

“Okay, I get the point.” Malcolm forced himself not to roll his eyes again, since Alistair was pretty much beating him to death with his so-called point. Which, now that he thought about it, was a good one. Damn him. “So what do we do? I mean, it isn’t like we have time to put up with this kind of thing. We found the Architect—”

“More like _he_ found _us_ ,” said Líadan. “And knocked us out and locked us up and stole our blood and probably did other ghastly experiments that we can’t remember.”

Malcolm threw a glare in her direction and she smirked. Then he continued to Fergus, “And we discovered quite a few interesting things from him before we escaped. Plus, we still need to investigate Kal’Hirol, especially given something the Architect told us.” While Malcolm knew he and the Wardens had no inclination to team up with the Architect, they did have very good reason to want the Mother dead, and dead as soon as possible. “We need to get back to the Vigil so we can update Riordan and Fiona and get to Kal’Hirol, not play with these templars and their stupid games.”

“Well, you don’t need to go to the Vigil to speak with Riordan and Fiona,” said Fergus. “They’re both waiting at Highever. I requested Riordan’s presence when the templars showed up on my doorstep asking for you. He brought Fiona with him, I think because she was at Weisshaupt before she came to Ferelden, so she knows the ins and outs of the Grey Warden policies regarding the Chantry better than Riordan. Or so Riordan told me when I asked. But that’s also made things more awkward at the castle, because for some unfathomable reason, Fiona _hates_ Eamon. I don’t think she’s looked at him with anything less than a glare the entire time.”

Líadan coughed, a poor attempt at covering up a sudden laugh. Alistair looked away suddenly, acting as if he now found the scenery around them incredibly engaging. Malcolm stared straight ahead, careful not to look over at either of his brothers, or at Líadan. Because, if he did, he wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face. It was either that or cry like a child because of how stupidly complicated everything was getting, especially when he thought he’d finally figured something out, at least partially. Obviously, Astrid was the person behind informing the Chantry that Malcolm’s mother was a mage. He wondered if she’d told them everything, if she’d told them that not only was his mother a mage, but also Orlesian, a Grey Warden, and an elf. Perhaps that was a new maneuver waiting for him at Highever. Instead of the templars using that threat with Fergus or Riordan, they’d take Malcolm aside and tell him that they’d spill the rest of the news to Ferelden and Thedas if he didn’t go quietly with them to Val Royeaux. He really hoped that wasn’t the case. He didn’t have time for it. No one did, including the templars, even if they didn’t know it.

Fergus slowly looked between the three people walking near him and narrowed his eyes. “Spill it. You all know something and you aren’t telling me. What’s going on? Is it to do with whatever happened between Eamon and Fiona? Because I didn’t even know they _knew_ each other before this.”

“They didn’t. Not exactly, anyway,” said Malcolm, after it became clear that Alistair wasn’t going to jump in to answer, and Líadan was still struggling not to laugh. 

“You’re talking in circles, little brother. Are you going to tell me or not?”

Malcolm glanced back, wondering if he would even be able to tell Fergus while they were out here. It wouldn’t matter if Oghren knew. Velanna didn’t care enough about any of the human forms of government to interfere. Anders, saved from the Circle, was a fairly safe bet. Nathaniel was an unknown quantity... well, no. That was unfair. He was a known quantity. He wouldn’t bring it up, and even if Malcolm had misjudged him and Nathaniel _did_ try to spread the rumor, it wouldn’t work given that he was a Howe. He sighed. “I’ll tell you once we set up camp.”

The answer seemed to satisfy Fergus for the time being, and Alistair didn’t object, either verbally or non-verbally. Nathaniel scouted ahead once the sun hovered close to the tops of the mountains and found a suitable place to camp. They could reach the foothills campsite within a few hours from this camp, and by taking the inland route, they would be able to reach Highever by sunset. Malcolm did not look forward to it, and by the countenances that everyone else wore, no one did. They pitched camp as they explained to the other Wardens about the presence of templars at Highever. On being told that the templars truly believed Malcolm an apostate mage, it had taken Anders a full five minutes to stop laughing long enough to speak. Even then, the words had been only gasps, and it wasn’t for another ten minutes that he was coherent again.

Over a dinner of trail rations mixed with the fresh food Fergus had brought, they arranged three watches between them. Malcolm insisted on being paired with Alistair, since he wanted to talk about what’d happened with the Architect, among other things. Fergus requested to stand watch with Nathaniel, bringing a clearly shocked expression to the archer’s face. But he acquiesced with a silent nod. Velanna looked particularly stricken at the thought of ending up standing watch with Oghren, but Anders graciously volunteered to join them. Malcolm didn’t have the heart to tell her that a watch with _both_ Oghren and Anders would be much worse than solely Oghren.

Líadan, having realized she’d been cut out of keeping watch entirely, folded her arms across her chest and glared at each of them around the firepit. “And what about me?”

“In case you’ve forgotten, you spent a few days trapped in a cave with life-threatening injuries,” Anders told her, entirely unaffected by her dark glare. “And since you aren’t a demigod, you’ll still need more rest than usual. That means you get to sleep blissfully through the night.”

“It reeks of special treatment,” she said.

Anders rolled his eyes. “That’s because it _is_. You were injured. Now you’re healing. Complain all you want, but in the end, you’re just going to have to deal with it. Even if I have to use a sleep spell on you to make sure you rest instead of staying awake out of spite.”

“Wow, has Anders got you pegged or what?” Alistair said to Líadan, who then shifted her glare from the mage to the king. She didn’t protest Anders’ assumption, though. It wouldn’t have done her any good in the first place, as they knew that out of any of them, she _would_ stay awake out of spite.

Chuckles rumbled up from Oghren’s chest. “Ha! _Anders_ isn’t the one pegging—”

“Say anything more and I will cut off your manhood and feed it to the darkspawn,” Líadan said, rising to her feet, right hand already on the hilt of her dagger. Malcolm, who was sitting next to her, hadn’t even seen her hand move. And if she didn’t want others to know about whatever it was going on between them, she probably shouldn’t have sat next to him. Then again, not sitting next to him would’ve been different from before, so that would have led to questioning as well. Seemed there wasn’t much a way out of it, no matter what Líadan might want to keep quiet. Or she just didn’t like being teased and this would be an incredibly easy topic, especially since it had already proven itself one. That, he suspected, was the real truth.

Oghren responded with a leer Malcolm hadn’t seen him give in a while. “Promises, promises.”

“Well, now I’m really interested in knowing what Oghren has to say,” said Alistair, once it became apparent that Líadan would not be gelding the dwarf in the near future.

Malcolm gaped at him. “Since _when_?”

“Since obviously he’s gotten hold of some really good gossip, that’s when. Besides, he and Anders already promised to tell me. I haven’t forgotten. I’m not the forgetful sort, and certainly not about something that has to be fantastically juicy.”

“No time for gossip, though,” Malcolm said. “We have to talk to Fergus.”

Fergus looked between Oghren, Anders, and Líadan for a moment before turning to Malcolm. “I don’t know. I have to admit, I’m sort of interested myself.” Before his brother could mount another defense, he said, “However, we should probably properly plan out how we’re going to deal with the templars at Highever before anything else. And, you had something to tell me.”

Malcolm looked around at the other Wardens gathered at the fire, making eye contact with each one whom he knew didn’t know about his parentage. “This goes no further. I didn’t think you would need to know, but apparently you do, with the things the templars are trying.”

“Surely you aren’t going to tell us that you’re secretly a mage,” said Velanna.

Líadan, still standing, scoffed. “Velanna, he has the magical ability of a pair of pants.”

“I don’t know, find the right pair of pants and they can feel pretty magical,” said Alistair.

Anders started to smile. “I prefer it more when pants magically disappear. Especially in certain situations.”

“Anders, you don’t even wear pants,” said Nathaniel.

“See, now you’re catching on,” the mage replied, his grin now fully formed.

Fergus cleared his throat. “Maker’s breath, is this what Riordan has to deal with all the time?” He looked at Malcolm. “And what you have to deal with when the commander isn’t around? I’m starting to see why bringing Alistair along might have looked like a sane idea.”

“Not really. He makes it worse,” Malcolm replied, and then shifted on the log he was sitting on, suddenly uncomfortable. “Jokes aside, do I have everyone’s word?” Nods, this time serious, came from each Warden. “Good.” He turned to Fergus. “The reason why Fiona glares at Eamon all the time is because... well... she’s my natural mother. And Alistair’s, too.”

Only the crackling of the fire dared make a sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish Translations:
> 
> -Líadan: “Arvhen’din.”  
> “Exile.”
> 
> -Velanna: “Ma’din elvhen’asha. Ma lath shemlen ashin, seth’lin.”  
> “You aren’t an elven woman. You love a shemlen man, thinblood. You are the exile.”
> 
> -Líadan: “Ar’din tu arvhen’din, dar ma.”  
> “I wasn’t cast out as you were.”
> 
> -Velanna: “Ma venshiral’din shemlen ashin. Ma lath shemlen dar’din navhen. Sulevin arvhen’din.”  
> “You won’t leave the shemlen man. You love him over your people. That is betrayal. That is real exile.”
> 
> -Líadan: “Ashin dar navhen. Ar inan sahlin. Darinan arla ma harel daru.”  
> “He is my people. I see this now. I found a home and you are jealous because you are alone.”


	43. Chapter 43

**Chapter 43**

“Here, I decree

Opposition in all things:

For earth, sky

For winter, summer

For darkness, Light.

By My Will alone is Balance sundered

And the world given new life.”

— _Canticle of Threnodies 5:6_

**Malcolm**

As Fergus wordlessly stared at him, Malcolm felt the air to his left shift as Líadan sat back down. Gunnar flopped on the ground in between them, draping his furry, muscled body across both pairs of their feet. From the edges of the fire, Malcolm swore he could feel the other Wardens—the ones who hadn’t known—also staring at him. And if they weren’t staring at him, then like Fergus, they were staring at the king. Malcolm exchanged an uneasy glance with Alistair, who looked just as uncomfortable as he felt. 

“Not sure if you noticed this or not, but Fiona’s an elf,” said Oghren, who continued before anyone could make a smart remark, “and the last time I looked, you and the pike-twirler were seriously lacking in the pointed ears the Antivan was so proud of.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow at Alistair, informing him that he could field that question. Alistair sighed, and then said in a very resigned voice, “That’s because the children of humans and elves are human. And why, I suspect, we both look so much like King Maric and pretty much nothing like Fiona.”

“Andraste’s ass,” said Fergus. “Does the Chantry know about this?”

“They didn’t before. But, now I’m not so sure,” Malcolm answered, his hand dropping to brush through Gunnar’s fur. “We know for a fact that it was the Second Warden from Weisshaupt who told the Divine about Morrigan in the first place. I think she must be the one who told them that my mother was a mage. You’ll notice they haven’t said anything about Alistair’s mother, so I think it’s safe to assume they still think Alistair and I are half-brothers and not full brothers. As for knowing specifically that my natural mother is not only a mage, but an elf, I’m not certain. If they do know, they’re probably holding back that card until they’re forced to play it.”

“Like when you refuse to go with them.”

“Yes, that’s when I suspect I’ll find out exactly how much Astrid—she’s the Second Warden, or was, anyway—has told them. Fiona knows Astrid fairly well, so she’d be better suited to predicting what Astrid might’ve already said. ”

Fergus stroked his goatee, his eyes thoughtful. “You know, that explains why Fiona is so angry with the two of you. I mean, she is far more angry, by leaps and bounds, I’d say, than Riordan is. If anything, I think Riordan is _amused_. But Fiona?” Then he started chuckling softly. “Remember that time when Mother caught us out on the bluffs without having told anyone that we’d gone? And just after a torrential rainstorm, so the bluffs were particularly unstable at the time?”

“Yes,” Malcolm said, the trepidation building in his chest.

“That’s about the level of anger I’m talking about.”

Malcolm paled. “Maker help us.” Teyrna Eleanor had been _furious_. The only time he had seen her more angry was the night Rendon Howe attacked Highever with his soldiers. Somehow, the prospect of facing a Fiona that angry frightened him far more than Eamon, Fergus, or pretty much anyone he could think of. They were, in a word, screwed. And that was before the entire mess with the Chantry was taken into account.

 “And now it makes sense,” Fergus said.

“Well, there’s even more of a reason for her to be angry,” said Malcolm. Then he explained the trip to the Deep Roads that Fiona had been a part of with King Maric, Duncan, and other Grey Wardens some twenty-odd years ago. 

Alistair perked up. “That’s the story you and Líadan were going to tell me, wasn’t it?” He continued without waiting for an answer, “I mean, Loghain having to rescue them at the Tower at the end, all while angry beyond belief that Maric had just run off, and then part where they fought a high dragon. Must be the story you meant to tell me.” He frowned, and his eyes grew a bit wider. “Wait, if that’s the... how long ago was this did you say?”

Malcolm told him, and then waited as his brother did the math.

The king leveled an accusatory finger at him. “That’s what you were giggling about in the Deep Roads, wasn’t it?” The finger pointed at Líadan. “And you! Both of you! You _were_ laughing at me!”

“To be fair, you asked if you had something on your face, not if we were laughing at you,” said Malcolm. “And we weren’t even laughing _at_ you. Just the circumstances that, um, made you. Or however that worked. Honestly, I’d prefer not to think about it again. Ever.”

“That makes two of us,” said Alistair.

On the other side of the fire, Oghren was clutching at his sides as he roared with laughter.  Anders wasn’t much better off, while Nathaniel’s look remained serious, as he understood the gravity of the political fallout should anyone find out about Alistair’s heritage. Velanna seemed shocked, her eyes practically boring holes alternately into Malcolm, Alistair, and oddly, Líadan. Malcolm figured Velanna had a lot to think about, trying to comprehend that the shemlen king and the shemlen prince weren’t exactly as shemlen as she’d once believed. It didn’t explain the odd looks at Líadan, though, unless she suspected something, which she probably did, knowing her.

“This could potentially be very bad,” Nathaniel said, and looked up at Fergus from where he was fletching an arrow on his lap. “I’m sure you all know this, hence the secrecy from before. I also feel that I must give you my word again that what I heard will remain a secret. Though I’ve served with you as a Grey Warden, my last name is still Howe, and so I’m sure it must—”

Fergus raised a hand. “Nathaniel. We’ve known each other since we were boys. Granted, I’m not a fan of your last name, but that’s only because it reminds me of your father. But you aren’t him and anyone who’s ever known you knows it. Our trust in you is deserved, so... just shut up about it already. No objecting. No extra promises. They aren’t needed. I know you’re serious, because you’ve always been _very serious_ , but I think I’ve got the serious covered for tonight.”

Nathaniel sighed. “I suppose I can accept that.”

“Good. Because I didn’t want to have to order it.”

A half-smile quirked at the corner of Nathaniel’s mouth. “The order wouldn’t stand. The Grey Wardens don’t even bow to kings, much less teyrns.”

“Technically, I could order it,” said Malcolm.

Fergus raised an eyebrow at him. “Would you?”

“No. As I’ve said before, entirely too much serious. Not like it doesn’t go ignored if I bother to order it, anyway.” Malcolm gave a pointed look to Líadan before returning to Fergus. “Never works. If people are bound and determined to be serious, they will be.”

“Well, this is a fairly serious situation,” said Nathaniel. “I mean, judging by Alistair’s popularity as king, I think they could get over his mother being a Warden, and Orlesian, and even a mage. But throw in the elf part, and you’re in for some serious trouble.”

“But the templars haven’t mentioned Alistair, only Malcolm.” Fergus sighed. “Then again, I’m not even sure if most of the Bannorn believes you’re only half-brothers. While no one has come out and said it, they could assume that Alistair’s mother is also Malcolm’s, no matter what story Arl Eamon gave and continues to give.”

Malcolm suddenly sat up straight, remembering a conversation—no, argument—he and Alistair had during the Blight. “Alistair, didn’t you once believe you had a half-sister?”

“Yes,” Alistair replied, eyes lighting in memory. “And when I told you, you were a real bastard. You told me that she wasn’t really my sister and I couldn’t go see her. I recall there being an argument. Sort-of. It was an almost argument. Got defused pretty quickly, now that I think about it. No yelling, no pushing, I don’t think there was even a punch thrown. Which, for us during that time, was quite remarkable.”

Oghren glanced between Alistair and Malcolm. “Let me get this straight. Before I joined the little party of yours during the Blight, the two of you regularly got into fistfights?”

“I wouldn’t say _regularly_ ,” said Alistair.

Malcolm nodded once at his brother before looking at Oghren. “Occasional. They were only occasional. Very rare, in fact. We rarely fought. With fists, anyway.”

The dwarf crossed his arms over his chest. “You would never make it in dwarven politics. Neither one of you could lie to save your life. I’m warrior caste and I don’t buy a thing you’re saying.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Oghren. I’ll keep that in mind the next time I’m in Orzammar.” Then he turned his attention to Malcolm. “What did you bring up Goldanna for?”

“We can use her as a cover.” Malcolm shoved away the guilt that he immediately felt on saying that statement, at _using_ anyone. But it seemed it would be necessary at this point thanks to Astrid’s political machinations of late. “I mean, have Eamon or you, or you _and_ Eamon, which would be better, pay her a visit. If she isn’t well off, help her out, something like that. It will give more credence to the idea of your mother being a scullery maid from Redcliffe. You wouldn’t—”

“Because having an elf for a mother is such a terrible thing?” Velanna snapped, rising to her feet and glaring at Malcolm.

He met her glare. “No. That’s not what I’m saying at all. What’s horrible would be Ferelden destabilizing because the Bannorn found out that the king they just put on the throne was half-elf. As for me, I don’t care. A person is a person. But the Bannorn _will_ care and that’s where the throne’s power comes from. Ferelden falling back into civil war right now would be horrible. We just ended a Blight and a civil war where we lost a great many lives. We’re barely recovering now and it will be years, perhaps even decades, before Ferelden is healthy again.”

“It isn’t a matter of being ashamed that my mother is an elf,” Alistair said as soon as Malcolm paused. “Because I’m not ashamed of it at all. But the Bannorn wouldn’t be able to comprehend it. We all know how elves are treated in Thedas. Sure, here in Ferelden it’s a bit better than Orlais or Tevinter, but that honestly isn’t saying much. Getting the Landsmeet to accept that the alienage wasn’t going to be a walled-in part of the city any longer, and instead, just another quarter of the city, was hard enough. Then came the change where I struck down the law that disallowed elves from carrying weapons within city limits. Then came the change where I made the position of the alienage’s _hahren_ into a bann to represent the city elves in the Landsmeet. That was incredibly difficult, and I still hear complaints about it all the time. But I don’t care, because it needed to be done. The past two Blights have been ended by elves. People, just like anyone else, and the time for this ill-treatment is quite over. To get these things done, for people to accept them, they cannot know that my mother is an elf. Everything that we’ve managed to do would be undone in an instant, and the elves would fare far worse than they have in a very long time.” Alistair stopped for a moment, caught by surprise at the sudden vehemence of his words. “Look, it doesn’t matter what I feel personally. That’s the part of being king that no one tells you about. Most of the time, you can’t do what you want to do or say what you want to say. Instead, you have to do what’s best for your people and your country. Would I like to tell everyone that my mother’s an elf? Yes. I would love to tell them that she’s an elf and a mage and a Grey Warden. But I can’t. That would put everything we’ve worked for in the past year and a half in danger. It would put the progress we’ve made in gaining the city elves the rights they deserve in jeopardy. So we do what we must to keep things working.” He inclined his head toward his brother. “Such as continuing a fabrication that started when I was just an infant.”

“He’s right,” Nathaniel said when Velanna didn’t respond. “Everything would come undone. Half the Bannorn wouldn’t care, but the other half would ask for Alistair’s immediate removal from the throne. They would call for repealing every change Alistair has made that’s resulted in betterment for the elves. They would wage war against the banns who sided with Alistair. They would try to kill Alistair. Some of them, if they didn’t know Malcolm was Alistair’s full brother, would try to put Malcolm on the throne in Alistair’s place, even if Malcolm objected, which I know he would. This land would be plunged into a dirty, bloody war that it couldn’t bear. If it ever ended, I’m not sure if there would be a Ferelden left. And it wouldn’t be bad just for the humans, either. The Dalish would have to leave Ferelden entirely or be caught up in the fighting. The dwarves would have to end their surface contracts. And the Grey Wardens would have to leave, I think, since Alistair is still technically a Warden. The Bannorn would associate the Wardens with either Alistair or Malcolm.” Nathaniel cracked a rare smile. “You know, Ferelden would be lucky if Orlais or Tevinter swooped in and conquered us while we were all busy fighting amongst ourselves. That would be the only way the majority of people could survive.”

“Surely you are blowing this out of proportion,” said Velanna. Her anger had mostly faded, though. Her tone carried a curious disbelief instead.

“The backlash against the city elves would be awful,” Malcolm said, images of possible reprisals against the elves burning through his mind. “No one would want to be an elf, then. They wouldn’t even wish it on their worst enemy. Elves would become the scapegoats again.”

Alistair studied Velanna carefully from his seat near Fergus. “And the welfare of elves as a whole in Ferelden is far more important than what I feel about my situation. To risk throwing that away, not to mention the entire possibility of a civil war, because of a matter of pride would be incredibly selfish and short-sighted.”

“Not that going into the Deep Roads with the Wardens wasn’t incredibly selfish and short-sighted at _all_ ,” Fergus muttered to himself. Malcolm shot him a glare, to which Fergus responded with a half-roll of his eyes.

The king ignored the byplay. “What matters is that the elves keep what freedoms they have and continue to gain more.”

Velanna held the king’s look for a moment, and then sat back down. She folded her hands in her lap as soon as she started to fidget. Then she sighed. “I suppose I can respect a man who sides with freedom.”

“But he’s human,” said Líadan. Malcolm glanced over at her, wondering whose side she was on. But Líadan kept her focus on the other Dalish elf, ignoring his raised eyebrow.

“Half.” Velanna shrugged. “You know, I can look past petty hatred when I have to.”

Líadan snorted quietly. “You never think you have to.”

“That’s because I cannot become complacent.” Velanna looked from Líadan and back to Alistair. “People with power never fail to abuse it. Even those with good intentions.”

“I think you underestimate exactly how much power I truly have,” Alistair replied. “I’m not appointed by the Maker or any other deity. I’m appointed by the Bannorn. Elected, pretty much. If I do too enough to really make them angry, I’m out. And, most likely, missing my head. I mean, they can say all they like about preserving the line of Calenhad and keeping it on Ferelden’s throne. But, if I take a step too far in a direction they don’t like... bad things would happen. I guess it takes becoming king to realize how little power you truly have as one. Well, unless you become a tyrant. I mean, I suppose I could do that, but it would result in pretty much the same thing. War. Death. Doom. And I’d really hate myself. That, too.”

“If you were the tyrant sort, I think you would’ve liked being a templar,” said Malcolm. The idea of Alistair as a tyrant just didn’t work. He would apologize far too much for even thinking half the things a tyrant would do, much less actually carry them out.

“True. I could’ve lorded it up over the mages like most templars do, all as preparation to becoming king. I would’ve had to skip the whole Grey Warden part, though. Which would be too bad, I really enjoyed being a Grey Warden. I would honestly take that life back in an instant if I could. Eamon having a stroke not withstanding, of course.”

Velanna stared at him. “Then why remain king?”

“Because I have to.” Alistair spared a moment to glare at his younger brother. “Other people won’t do it.”

“That isn’t true,” Malcolm said. “Offhand, I can think of at least one other person who would _gladly_ do it.”

“Really? From the line of Calenhad? Because Anora doesn’t count. And I don’t think you’ve got another Theirin bastard in your pocket, so I think that’s exactly who you were going to mention.”

Malcolm sighed. So much for that. If only Anora had been born a Theirin, that would make things so much easier. Well, no, not exactly. Because then she’d be their sister and that would be really, really weird. At least she didn’t favor her father in looks, so there was that much. But if this mess with Eamon didn’t work itself out, Alistair would most likely need Anora’s help at court, as much as he might dislike her because of who her father had been. But she had sworn her oath of fealty and had done an excellent job with Gwaren since the end of the Blight. If she could be convinced to work _with_ Alistair instead of against him, it could be the best course of action for Ferelden’s future to make her chancellor, or perhaps even queen alongside Alistair. Malcolm mentally shook himself, realizing his thoughts were aligning much too closely with Eamon’s reasoning.  “No, fresh out of bastards,” he answered his brother. “Or legitimate Theirins, for that matter.”

Fergus seemed to rouse himself out of thought. “You’re both considered legitimate now. Not quite sure how it all worked, but the Chantry did something after the Landsmeet that ended up with Alistair being named king. Something about how bastards were only children who were unacknowledged by their fathers. Eamon had papers that he showed to the Chantry that proved he did acknowledge each of you as his son, even if not to the Bannorn. Chantry did a little legal legwork after, and the short of it is that you were somehow both legitimized.”

“Eamon did that?” Malcolm asked.

“It _is_ the Theirin bloodline we’re talking about,” said Alistair. “You honestly can’t be that surprised.”

“True.”

“If Ferelden is truly like you say, how are you not already conquered by another country?” Velanna asked. 

“Ha! That question coming from an elf,” said Oghren. “The humans destroyed your homeland, what, twice?”

Velanna stood up again, this time to fire a glare at Oghren as her hands inched towards the stave slung on her back. “I will not listen to your insults, dwarf!”

Oghren held up his hands in a gesture of peace. “Hey, no need to get your smalls in a twist. I had this conversation with the Antivan, back during the Blight, you see.”

Líadan pressed her face into her hands and murmured something into them. Malcolm leaned over and brought his head near hers, happy to have the excuse for closeness as it was very clear that there would be none anytime in the near future. “What was that?”

She moved her fingers so that one green eye peeked out. “I heard the conversation he and Zevran had, if it’s the one I’m thinking of. It wasn’t so much a conversation as it was more of Oghren’s drunken ramblings and Zevran actually getting a little angry with him over the subject. I’m surprised Oghren remembers it at all. At the time, I recall being surprised that he could stand up, let alone keep himself from falling into the firepit and still remember everything later.”

“That’s Oghren. Always surprising us like that with his understated abilities.” Malcolm’s attention had started drifting back towards the others when what Líadan had said finally sank in. “Wait, Zevran got _angry_ with him? Zev rarely got angry. How did I miss this?”

Líadan dropped her hands back into her lap, and her eyes looked away from him and toward the fire. “You were... indisposed.” Her actions told him everything her words didn’t say—that he’d been with Morrigan, engaged in some tent time.

“Right. Of course I was.” _You really stuck your foot in it_ that _time, Malcolm_. The discomfort of that particular topic made Líadan shift away from him just enough that a tiny gap opened up between their seated bodies. Small, but enough for him to notice the cold, especially when Gunnar rolled to his feet and trotted over to Fergus. Líadan’s withdrawal also gave Malcolm the insight that she still wasn’t entirely convinced that he wouldn’t leave with Morrigan, if ever given the chance. But beyond Morrigan appearing before them and offering him the chance for him to go with her and him turning her down, he had no way of proving that to Líadan. He had no way of proving that he’d already made his choice, that he’d already moved on, as he should have done months ago. Morrigan had left him, and whatever they’d had together was clearly over. He would always care for her in some way, yes, but she wasn’t the most important thing in his life, nor had she ever been. Not like the woman sitting next to him, the one he’d just managed to make incredibly uncomfortable because he was obviously a moron. However, Líadan didn’t move from her seat entirely and remained sitting next to him, so that was a step at least. And back in the tunnel, _she_ had kissed _him_ , so he hadn’t been imagining things.

While he and Líadan had been busy making each other uncomfortable, Velanna and Oghren had continued their confrontation. “There is nothing to understand, dwarf, except for simple numbers,” said Velanna, pacing next to the fire. “Humans outnumber the elves. We do not have the numbers to simply rise up, slay them all, and reclaim our lands. We are lucky to have as many elves as we currently have, especially given recent trends.” Velanna looked pointedly in Líadan’s direction, who responded with a slight narrowing of her eyes. Then Velanna’s gaze fell on Malcolm then Alistair. “In the end, humans could simply breed us out existence if they wanted, given the inclinations of some of my fellow elves.” She motioned towards Malcolm and the king. “Their mother, for example.”

“You seriously did not just say that,” said Alistair.

Velanna turned from Oghren to the king. “Every elf, flat-ear or Dalish, knows that unions between humans and elves produce _human_ children. Why do you think even your city-dwelling, shem-loving flat-ears at least still stay with their own kind? Because if they didn’t, elves would cease to exist. We would be left with people like you or your brother.”

“Are we truly that awful?” Malcolm said, the question pitched more to himself than anyone else.

“You aren’t elves,” Líadan whispered to him. “For Velanna, that’s bad enough.”

“So you believe that elves who don’t remain with other elves are traitors?” Alistair asked.

Velanna threw her hands into a mock-victorious pose. “Exactly! He finally catches on. Yes. Elves who choose shems over their own kind are traitors because they’re assuring that our people will die out. The smallest percentage of human blood will win out over elven when it comes to offspring. That alone could kill us as easily as the curse of mortality we already gained from the shemlen when they came to Arlathan from Tevinter.” She turned an accusatory look on Líadan. “We’re taught this when we are very young. Every elf should know better.”

“That’s it, I’m going to kill her,” said Líadan, rising to her feet and reaching for her staff. When her hand grasped at air because her staff was absent, still in broken pieces littering the collapsed tunnel, she swore and her scowl darkened. Malcolm tapped the dagger at Líadan’s side. She drew it and gave him a smile of thanks before advancing on Velanna.

Alistair jumped in between the two elves. “No killing!”

“Or aiding and abetting,” said Fergus with a pointed look at Malcolm.

“Why are you—” Alistair started asking, and then looked quickly in Velanna’s direction when magic snapped in the air. “No! Don’t try anything, I’ve got templar abilities. You really don’t want me to smite you. But I will if you insist. And that goes for both of you.”

Líadan slowly twirled the dragonbone dagger in her hand. “Smite away, templar. I don’t need magic to kill her.”

The crackling green energy forming in Velanna’s palms, which had started to fade, flared back into life. 

“Pike twirler isn’t kidding,” said Oghren. “He’ll smite you. He’s done it to Líadan before.” Then his chuckles resumed and he pointed at Malcolm. “After she hit that one with lightning in the Deep Roads.”

“Oghren, it’s your fault that they’re arguing in the first place,” said Nathaniel.

Alistair took a chance and broke his gaze away from Velanna. “Líadan, why are you trying to kill her?”

Líadan ignored the king’s question and kept her glare on Velanna. “Say what you have to say, _arvhen’din_.”

“ _Ma’din elvhen’asha. Ma lath shemlen ashin, seth’lin. Ma arvhen’din,_ ” Velanna shot back.

“This is incredibly hot,” Anders quietly said to Oghren, though Malcolm could still hear it. “If you actually thought this through, you are far more brilliant than I give you credit for, you dirty little dwarf.”

As Oghren leered at the two elves, Nathaniel asked Anders, “You gave him credit in the fist place?”

Líadan’s free hand drew her second dagger and waved it threateningly at the three chatting men. “Shut up or you’re next,” she told them without looking away from Velanna. Then she directed her next sentence at the other elf. “ _Ar’din tu arvhen'din, dar ma._ ”

Velanna scoffed, her mouth twisting in amusement and disgust. “ _Ma venshiral’din shemlen ashin. Ma lath shemlen dar’din navhen. Sulevin arvhen’din._ ”

When Líadan turned to study Malcolm for a moment, the light of anger in her eyes changed, softening to a saddened acceptance. But her lips quirked the tiniest bit at the corners; a smile that only he could see. Then her face reverted to its stony countenance from before and she returned her attention to Velanna. When she spoke, the harshness was gone from her voice, instead reflecting the sadness from her eyes. “ _Ashin dar navhen. Ar inan sahlin. Darinan arla ma harel daru._ ”

Velanna stared at Líadan for a long moment before huffing to herself, turning on her heel, and striding hurriedly into the forest. Alistair stared after her, mouth hanging slightly open. Líadan smirked at the other elf’s sudden departure, and then  calmly returned her blades to their sheaths.

“Should we go after her?” Anders asked, looking uneasily into the darkened forest.

“No. She’ll come back,” Líadan answered, and settled herself back into her seat next to Malcolm. The slight gap between them remained, but he noted that she had still chosen the spot next to him rather than any of the other open seats.

“How can you be so sure?” asked Alistair.

Líadan shrugged, informing them that the answer was entirely obvious. “She has nowhere else to go.”

Alistair frowned, but otherwise seemed to accept the answer. Silence fell over the group, awkward and itchy, until Oghren challenged the others to a game of Diamondback. Fergus immediately answered the challenge, Anders, Alistair, and even Nathaniel quickly behind, all in want of a diversion. Malcolm had no intention of playing that game again after his last experience, and while Líadan seemed oddly self-satisfied, she gave no indication that she was willing to play. As Oghren and the other men set up the game, Gunnar drifted back over to where the non-players remained, sitting next to Líadan and placing his massive head in her lap. The elf kept her gaze on the fire, idly stroking her fingers through the mabari’s fur.

Once the game got started, Malcolm said to Líadan, “I’m guessing you won’t tell me what you two said to each other.”

“No, I won’t. So don’t ask.”

He sighed. “Fine.”

“I’ve heard that sigh before. I really don’t like it when I make you sigh like that.”

“You could tell me what you’ve been saying. That’s a start. I mean, you turned around and looked at me. You can’t say that something about that argument didn’t have to do with me after that. And some of the words were similar to the ones you said to me back at the cave-in. I remember those.”

She looked at him, one of her eyebrows arched. “I don’t remember them. What did I say to you?”

Knowing his accent was terrible and assuming he must be pronouncing half the words completely wrong, Malcolm said, “ _Ar’din lath’din ma, alasbora. Ma’arlath. Emma alasbora._ Well, the last couple of words you added after laughing. I’m not sure if you were laughing at me or yourself. It was hard to tell at the time since you were acting so weird.” But she’d started laughing again as he’d told her, a quiet chuckle that made her eyes crinkle at the sides. “What? What’s so funny?”

“I said that? Truly?”

He frowned. “Yes. At least, I’m fairly certain that’s what you said. Why? What does it mean in Fereldan?”

She doubled over in silent laughter, hands clutching at her sides. “Oh, Creators, there’s no way I’m telling you what I said. Let’s just say I can’t be held responsible for anything I might have said with a concussion.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Come on. You start cracking up after I tell you something that _you_ couldn’t remember saying, and you don’t even have the decency to tell me what it was?”

“I...” Her mirth disappeared. “I’m sorry. I just can’t... I really can’t tell you. Not yet.” Then she got to her feet and retreated to her tent across the camp before he could say anything else. Gunnar snuffed once in Malcolm’s direction before trotting off to lay down in front of Líadan’s tent, standing guard. 

He sighed again, sliding forward out of his seat and extending his legs closer to the fire as he propped his back against the rock behind him. The cold under his rear end distracted him a little from the frustration of trying to figure out Líadan.

“You know, I think I’ve seen horse handlers have more luck in dealing with skittish colts,” came Fergus’s voice. Then he plunked himself down next to Malcolm. “I should’ve known better than to try and play Diamondback. I lost everything I put in before you’d even managed to chase off Líadan. And that, little brother, was pretty fast. What did you say to her?”

“I just wanted to know what she and Velanna were saying.”

“Maker’s blood, you _wanted_ to know? It sounded like the verbal equivalent of kicking puppies and was enough to make _Velanna_ storm off and look a little bit hurt when she turned away. Then again, Líadan did turn and look at you, so I suppose it’s understandable that you’d be curious.”

“That, and I wanted to know something she said to me in Elvish while she was trapped. She couldn’t remember what it was, so I told her. That’s what she was laughing at, but even then, she wouldn’t translate for me. I’m either going to have to look it up or ask Fiona or Riordan.”

“Don’t forget what I said about Fiona being mad at you and Alistair. I wasn’t kidding. Were I you, I’d stay well away from her until she’s had time to calm down. Your best bet would be Riordan. Or a book. Or just waiting until Líadan is ready to tell you herself. In fact, that’s what I recommend doing.”

Malcolm grimaced. He’d forgotten about Fiona’s anger. Maybe waiting was the best option. They had both waited for a long while already, adding more time really shouldn’t be such a big deal, even though it felt like it. “I figured out the answer to your question.”

“Did you?” Fergus grinned. “Good. So wait this out. You came around. Judging from what Anders and Oghren are going on about, she has too, for the most part. But she was patient with you, I think. It’s only fair that you do the same for her. Besides, we’ve all got these stupid templars to deal with. I still can’t believe they honestly think you’re a mage.” The grin disappeared as seriousness made its return, and Fergus scratched at a spot of rust on his chainmail. “On Riordan’s recommendation, I summoned the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander of the Circle Tower to Highever. I didn’t bother with the Grand Cleric since she still hasn’t answered the king’s message, so why would she answer a mere teyrn’s? Oh, and your friend Wynne is at Highever, too. She arrived with Fiona and Riordan.”

“Fantastic. I take it she’s mad, too?”

“No. Not mad. Disappointed, though. Like she expected better of you. I think she keeps forgetting how young you are, both you and Alistair. Not saying I wasn’t mad, too. But once the templars showed up, your little stunt of a foray into the Deep Roads became very secondary. Of course, if you do it again, I will kill you. And Alistair should start thinking of who he’d like as a new chancellor, because I don’t think Eamon is playing around. I hope he won’t resign, but I won’t hold my breath.” Fergus’ gaze drifted briefly to Líadan’s tent. “At least she’s not mad at you.”

Malcolm followed Fergus’ look, studying the outline of the tent against the dark forest. “Mad is easier to deal with.”

Fergus chuckled and slung his arm across his younger brother’s shoulders. “Don’t worry. All this turmoil? It’s worth it in the end.”


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter 44**

“The Waking Sea Bannorn has been famous since time immemorial for its archers. Children there are given bows before they can walk, and parents have been known, on occasion, to disown their offspring for failure to hit bulls-eyes.

When Calenhad came to demand the Waking Sea’s fealty, Bann Camenae greeted her would-be king by shooting his horse out from under him half a league from Castle Eremon. Calenhad reached the gates on foot and found them barred, with dozens of archers watching him from the castle walls. 

He waited outside the walls with his men until sunset, when Camenae opened the gates and met him, armored to the teeth with her bow in hand. ‘You have proven you have sense and humility, Theirin. And no man can hope to lead the Bannorn without those gifts.’ She then knelt and swore her oath.

To this day, the Eremon family of the Waking Sea presents every newly crowned king or queen of Ferelden with two gifts: an arrow and a horse.”

— _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

**Alistair**

“It still amazes me that the Chantry would go to all this trouble to catch Morrigan before she has this Old God child of hers,” Malcolm said. He sat across the fire from Alistair, sword unsheathed across his knees. 

“You know, it’s hard to imagine Morrigan as a mother,” Alistair said. They were on third watch together, awake while the rest of their party slept. Though, Velanna had yet to return from the forest after her little snit, so she could be awake as well, Alistair surmised. Gunnar also intermittently lifted his head from his forepaws to peer into the trees from his place outside Líadan’s tent. Oghren had passed out after losing the Diamondback game to the quietly triumphant Nathaniel, who had surprised them all with his previously unknown skill at the card game. Alistair hadn’t fared much better than Fergus and his coinpurse was all the lighter for it. Except it had been a nice diversion to get their minds off the nasty confrontation that’d happened between Líadan and Velanna. 

Malcolm dropped to the ground in front of the rock he’d been sitting on, inching closer to the warmth of the fire. “I hesitate to ask why you’re even thinking about it in the first place.”

“From your question before, about what the templars would do if they found her and if they...” he trailed off and cleared his throat of the hitch of remorse that caught there. Remorse for Morrigan? After what she’d pulled, he hadn’t thought it possible. Yet, at the same time, he oddly did not wish her dead. He simply wished her... away. Preferably never having been involved in his and his brother’s lives at all, but he’d take her staying away forever. He slid a glance over at Malcolm, now settled with his back against the rock, hands extended towards the flames, eyes lost in rumination. Except that his brother would go looking for her eventually, so it didn’t much matter, in the end. “I just... well, Morrigan is smart.”

“Far smarter than you, she’d claim,” Malcolm said, lips quirking in a small smile.

Alistair took no offense. He knew he wasn’t stupid, not by any means. Yet he was smart enough to recognize when someone else’s intelligence vastly exceeded his own and man enough to admit it, most of the time. “And she’d be right. Not that I would’ve ever told her, because she would’ve been even more insufferable. Anyhow, that’s not what I meant to get into. What I was saying was that she’ll be able to avoid the templars after her, I think. If anyone can do it, she can. That got me wondering how she would be after she had the child. Because while it’s disturbing to think of Morrigan being _with_ child, it’s even more disturbing to think of Morrigan being a _mother_.”

“Do you think she’d be a bad one?”

“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t. It isn’t like her own mother was a shining example of motherly... mothering.” A frown twisted at his mouth. “Not that our own mother was, either.”

Malcolm’s frown mirrored Alistair’s and he straightened slightly from his slump. “I hardly think that comparing our mother to _Flemeth_ is fair.”

He had to give him that one. Given the choice between being abandoned and raised as he had been, or being raised as Flemeth had raised Morrigan, Alistair decided he’d take the abandonment any day of any Age. “True. I doubt she can shapeshift into a high dragon. That we can tell, anyway. You never know. You could annoy her one day and suddenly find yourself snatched up by giant, razor-sharp teeth and flung a hundred feet into the air.”

“I dare you to say that to her face.”

“Oh, yes, I can see that conversation going well. ‘I know we haven’t talked much but... you don’t happen to be an evil abomination who shapeshifts into a high dragon, do you? No? Hey, why am I on fire?’ Yes, that would go fantastically well. _Especially_ given that from what Fergus says, she’s already angry with us.”

Pockets of sap popped in the fire a few times before Malcolm glanced over at Alistair. “At least you have the chance to do something like that now. I mean, you could just go talk to her, pretty much whenever. Once she’s done being mad, that is.”

Alistair blinked at the realization. He hadn’t thought of that before. He could do that. Just go and talk to her. To his _mother_. Mother. It felt strange and oddly comforting. “Maybe I will.” He paused, and then asked, “Have you? Talked to her, I mean.”

“Before we left the Vigil for Amaranthine, yeah.”

“What was it like?”

Malcolm gave Alistair a look telling him that, for his benefit, he was holding back a very sarcastic comment. Alistair, being glib enough himself, knew just how much of an opening he’d given his brother. But he hadn’t been able to help the question, as it happened with him far too often for his own good. Questions, words, really, just tended to tumble out of his mouth. Drove Eamon batty, but half the Landsmeet found it entertaining. He was, at least, better at controlling what he said than Malcolm was. 

“Awkward,” Malcolm finally said, eyes returning to the fire. “I mean... it’s different for me. I _had_ a mother growing up. Sure, she wasn’t my natural mother, but I didn’t know that, and even now, that part doesn’t matter. Eleanor Cousland was _there_. She’s the woman who raised me. She’s the woman I called Mother.” He sighed and ran a hand through his much-shortened hair. Alistair was still slightly startled whenever he saw it. Admittedly, Anders had done a decent job making Malcolm’s haircut-by-dragon-fire into something not laughable, as it had been originally. “I hadn’t meant to talk, not about that stuff. I’d only stopped by to give her the ring Morrigan had given me, so that she could work on it while we were away. Then I just kind of started asking questions before I realized I really even had them.”

Actions with which Alistair could well sympathize. “What did you ask?”

“If she ever talked to Maric about staying here in Ferelden after she brought you.” Malcolm hands tapped absently on the cold metal of his blade. “Turns out, Maric asked her to stay. From stories I’ve heard about him, I shouldn’t have been too surprised that he did. I mean, had you or I been in his place, we would’ve done the same. By all accounts, we’re a lot like him.”

“You look more like him than I do.”

“No, I don’t. My hair is more red than yours. You just think I look more like him because my eyes are blue. Besides, this little old lady of an apostate in Highever told me that I look more like Queen Moira. So there. Take it up with her.”

Alistair snorted. “What is it with you and apostates? I take it you didn’t tell the templars about her.”

“Why would I? She’s a harmless old healer who has kept herself hidden from the Chantry this long. Plus, she gave us intelligence about the Tevinters. I’m not about to hand her over to the Chantry to be killed, because both of us know that’s exactly what would happen if the templars caught up with her. Which is barbaric, by the way.”

“Keep talking like that and you’ll lend credence to them thinking you’re a mage.”

“Right. Because I don’t believe in most of the Chantry’s position on mages. Clearly that proves I’m a mage. You got me. Shame you didn’t remain a templar.”

Deciding that they didn’t need to get into that conversation, as it was a very long one that generally descended into a lot of yelling, Alistair said, “Obviously Fiona told Maric no. Did you ask her why?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. Her reason—and don’t think I didn’t notice you trying to change the subject—was mostly _because_ of how badly mages are treated. Think about it. Fiona is a Grey Warden. A warrior. Useful. But if she’d left the Wardens to stay here, she would either have had to join the Circle or become an apostate. Neither option really appealed to her, for understandable reasons. She didn’t want to be caged or constantly on the run. And the Dalish aren’t exactly the most welcoming of people, as evidenced from what Velanna said earlier, so she couldn’t join them. In the end, she would’ve had to give us up anyway, because people would’ve quickly put two and two together otherwise. So she stayed with the Wardens and gave us to Maric. He was supposed to find people to raise us away from court, without the knowledge of us being royal bastards and half-elf. Lead the lives they couldn’t and all that.”

“Didn’t work out that way. I’m _king_.” He didn’t mention that he’d been happy just as a Warden. Malcolm was well aware of that fact and the guilt that knowledge brought had influenced Malcolm’s decision to allow Alistair to accompany them on their ill-fated trip. Fergus had given Alistair several earfuls on their way back up to the cirque on the subject of using Malcolm’s guilt against him to get his way. How irresponsible it was, how conduct unbecoming a king it was, how bad of an older brother it made him— _that_ one had stung more than the rest—and so on. Fergus had only stopped once Alistair promised that he’d never wield guilt like that against Malcolm again unless it was for Malcolm’s own good. Because, according to Fergus, guilt was a tool that was useful in getting wayward younger brothers to cooperate, so it couldn’t be entirely discounted.

“Really? Is that why you have a crown and everything?”

“Okay, I deserved that.”

“She isn’t terribly thrilled at how things worked out, either. I wasn’t supposed to be a Grey Warden. Neither were you, for that matter, because no one really wishes this career on their children. But, a Warden was better than a templar, especially given that Fiona is a mage.”

Alistair smirked. “And you are, too, according to the Divine.”

“Oh, please. You know, part of me wishes Morrigan had been around to hear that. When she found out that my _mother_ was a mage, she could barely keep from laughing.” A smile tweaked at Malcolm’s mouth despite the mention of the witch. 

Wondering exactly how much truth was in what Anders and Oghren had been alluding to earlier, Alistair’s eyes briefly flicked over to Líadan’s tent. Maybe Malcolm _had_ moved on. His ability to mention Morrigan without a twinge of hurt in his voice made Alistair believe it. “You know, Líadan _did_ laugh out loud. Right in your face, actually. Point in her favor, in my opinion.”

“Of course you’d think that. You’re about as subtle as Oghren, which means not at all. You know, at one point, you did stop hating Morrigan. Unless I imagined it.” The protest, though, was half-hearted, and the voiced memory held none of the biting regret it normally would have.

“No, you didn’t imagine it. But my non-hatred stopped when she left like she did. So, I am very much a non-fan of hers once again.”

Malcolm drew his eyes away from the flames and looked over at Alistair. “Your opinion of her changed that quickly?”

“You didn’t see the look on your face. I mean, you looked like someone had kicked every puppy in existence, and then proceeded to punch every kitten in Thedas straight after and forced you to watch the entire thing. Before I even knew who made you look like that, I decided that I didn’t like them. Turned out to be Morrigan. In case you’re wondering, Fergus has the same opinion about her and several choice words. We chatted about it returning to Drake’s Fall, in addition to all the time we talked about it while you were at Weisshaupt.” Alistair inclined his head toward Líadan’s tent. “Also, Fergus really likes her.”

Both of Malcolm’s eyebrows shot up. “Does he?”

“Not like _that._ Not like you do.”

The brows dropped into a frown. “Like I do what?”

“Be that way, play innocent all you want. Just so you know, I like her, too. Also not like that. I mean, she’s pretty and all sorts of awesome, but she is also _scary_. Sometimes, I think she’s more scary than Morrigan ever was. All prickly and volatile, while Morrigan was pretty much just a bitch at times, at least to me. Usually.” Alistair, noticing the darkening look on his brother’s face, contemplated stopping his talking, but decided against it. He’d continue with his strength. “Heart of gold, though, I think, tucked away in that incredibly well-guarded spiky exterior. It has to mean something when your mabari chooses to hang out with her more often than he hangs out with you.”

Malcolm brightened, a smile tugging at his lips. “You know, I’d noticed that and wondered if he liked her more than me.”

“Oh, that’s easy. Everyone likes her more than you. She’s cuter.”

“You do wonders for my self-confidence. Seriously. I should have you around more often.”

“Were you to keep Alistair around constantly, I believe I would request that I be allowed to remain behind with Riordan at Vigil’s Keep,” said Velanna as she stepped from the forest and into the light of the fire.

“Hey, nice of you to join us again,” said Alistair, flashing a smile at her.

“I wanted to leave you at the Vigil in the first place,” Malcolm said, bending his right knee and pulling that leg close to his chest, leaving his sword perched on the other. “But Riordan said no, that we had to take you. Why? Because we don’t get along, you and me and Líadan. This is his brilliant scheme to get us to cooperate with each other. Maybe even be friendly. We all see how well that plan worked out when every other word out of your mouth is an insult. For all I know, every word _could_ be an insult, but you keep switching to Elvish. Still sounds mean, though, and insulting.”

Velanna stared at Malcolm for a moment then reached behind her back and pulled out her staff. Neither Malcolm nor Alistair reacted outwardly, both remaining seated. One of the elf’s eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise at the lack of reaction, and then she sat down, stave propped next to her on the log, within easy reach. “I am not too long away from my people, so it is habit for me to speak in my native language. I am sorry.”

Malcolm looked up from where he was poking at the leather wrapped around the grip of his sword. “No, you’re not.”

Alistair wondered if Malcolm was trying to pick a fight. It wasn’t out of his nature to do so, and Alistair had been a victim of the propensity more than once. He fell for it almost every time, too. 

A ghost of a smile appeared on Velanna’s face. “Not entirely sorry, but perhaps a little. This is far from the right time for more discord than is necessary.”

“You say that like there’s a time for discord,” said Alistair. 

Malcolm gave Alistair a crooked smile. “We wouldn’t want things to get boring, now would we?” Then he looked at Velanna. “So what did you and Líadan talk about?”

It was Velanna’s turn for a smile. “She wouldn’t tell you?”

“No.” Frustration replaced the slight amusement on Malcolm’s face, and his eyes flitted quickly to and from Líadan’s tent. 

Alistair noticed, and surmised that Velanna probably did, too. Anyone with eyes at this point could tell that something had changed between Malcolm and Líadan, because the tension that had been between them had mostly gone. Only mostly, though, as it had been replaced with a different sort of tension, where it seemed they half-said things to each other, and then ran away. Like earlier, while the rest of them had played Diamondback, he’d noticed them talking and Líadan’s subsequent retreat to her tent, followed by Malcolm brooding until Fergus went over to speak with him. Of course, any advances they might’ve made in their personal situation would have to be put very much on the wayside with the appearance of the templars. Again. Because the Chantry’s knights didn’t give up, ever. 

Once it became apparent that Velanna wasn’t going to answer, Malcolm continued, “And don’t think I don’t remember that you said something to me in Elvish back at Drake’s Fall, either. It sounded a lot like something you said to her earlier, you know, when you were about to kill each other.” 

“I wouldn’t kill her.”

“That wasn’t what I expected to hear,” said Alistair.

 Velanna sighed. “Despite her faults and her insistence on betraying our people, I would not harm her. Much. Or permanently.”

“ _That’s_ what I would’ve expected.” When both Malcolm and Velanna gave him looks of exasperation, he shrugged in return. Then he addressed Velanna and said, “Look, whatever you might think for your people, it’s different with Grey Wardens. The fact that our natural mother had two children is an anomaly. Normally, it’s incredibly difficult for a Grey Warden to have a child.” He glanced over at Malcolm, hesitating for a moment about broaching the subject, but plunged ahead. “For two Grey Wardens? From what I’ve heard, it’s nigh on impossible. So, if you are implying what I think you’re implying with Líadan being some sort of traitor, well, you’re wrong.”

Velanna studied Malcolm for a moment, finger tapping at her chin. Then she said to Alistair, “It still stands that the possibility remains were the other person a non-Warden.”

“Really awkward for me right now, in case either of you care,” said Malcolm. “Is it dawn yet? No?”

Alistair ignored him. “I think the possibility is small enough where it’d be fairly hard to condemn her—or our mother—as a traitor to their people and remain standing solidly on the high ground.”

Velanna nodded, seeming at least partly convinced. “I will consider what you said.” She looked at Malcolm. “As for what Líadan said, that is up to her to tell you. As for what I said, if you want to know, you’ll have to learn Elvish or get her to translate for you. Somehow, I doubt she will.” Then she motioned towards the brightening horizon. “And, yes, it’s dawn.”

With that, Alistair got to his feet and went around the small camp to rouse their companions. They quickly struck camp, opting to eat breakfast on the trail. Alistair walked with Fergus and discussed plans for Highever. He was pleased to find out that Fergus had already called for Irving and Greagoir, though he wished the Grand Cleric had answered his message. Having her on their side would be a tremendous help. Then again, she might end up siding with the Divine, so perhaps having her not present would end up being a good thing. Between Irving, Wynne, and Greagoir, they should be able to prove that Malcolm wasn’t a mage and keep the templars from forcibly taking him to Val Royeaux. If the templars actually knew that Malcolm’s mother was an elf, and that she was also Alistair’s mother, and tried to used that against them, Alistair wasn’t sure what he would do. As a brother, he had a responsibility to keep the templars from wrongfully taking Malcolm. As a king, he had a responsibility to keep his country stable and most decidedly not in a state of civil war. Knowledge like that getting out from a credible source, and the Chantry would certainly be viewed as such, would be devastating to the stability of Ferelden. It was his responsibility, as king, to keep that from happening to his people.

Problem was, keeping that from happening could come at the expense of his brother. He knew, should it come to that, that Malcolm would understand. But knowing that didn’t make him feel any less guilty for even contemplating it. Malcolm being brought to Val Royeaux would also leave Ferelden short a Senior Warden, thanks to the work of an unscrupulous Second Warden. Though he’d agreed to the delay so that they could dig Líadan out of the caved-in section of the tunnel, he knew that Kal’Hirol was a true danger that needed to be dealt with as swiftly as possible. Doubly so given what the Architect had told them about the Mother and her own hunt for Morrigan and the unborn Old God child. 

Alistair chanced a look back to where Malcolm walked next to Líadan, and the two of them deep in some conversation that even Alistair couldn’t hear. Their expressions were far different from what they’d been the morning before. No longer were their eyes relaxed with relief and shining with a sort of giddiness. Instead, they were troubled and serious. Their mouths no longer seemed ready to curl into a smile, now intent on speaking about heavy subjects. Alistair wanted to tease them, but found that he couldn’t, not with the situation with the templars and the Divine looming over them. He held in a sigh and trudged forward on the trail.

They reached the camp in the foothills earlier than expected. The Wardens who had remained in the mountains expressed their surprise at how many soldiers now milled about in the camp. Alistair counted at least twenty and there were probably more patrolling near the roads. They were a mixture of men from Highever and the Royal Guard. Alistair and Fergus left them with orders to continue as they were until the dwarves and soldiers up in Drake’s Fall descended. There were no mages among the soldiers, so Líadan was still left without a ranged weapon as there were no spare staffs to be had. As Alistair fetched more bread and cheese for the road, he happened on to a curious argument between Malcolm and Líadan.

Malcolm was trying to press a bow into Líadan’s hands and she refused to take it. “You need a ranged weapon, even if it isn’t a magical weapon like a staff,” he said.

“I’m not using it. Give it back to the poor soldier who gave it to you.”

Alistair’s hand paused in its trip to deliver a bite of cheese to his mouth. Odd. Líadan had never used a bow around them before, not once during the entire Blight that he could remember. If Malcolm was so determined that she use a ranged weapon, a crossbow would’ve been a better choice, since you didn’t exactly have to be trained to use one, unlike a longbow. From what he’d been told, true skill with a longbow required years of training, often from childhood.

“I know that you know how to use it. You’re a good archer. You said so yourself.”

“I _used_ to be a good archer. I don’t do that anymore. Not since...” she trailed off, her eyes becoming slightly unfocused, reminding Alistair of a lost child. It was unsettling to see that look on Líadan’s face, as he rarely saw her as anything but vulnerable. “I just don’t. You know why.” The elf gently pushed the bow, still in Malcolm’s hands, against his chest. “Take it back to the soldier you got it from.” She bit her lip for a moment, and then said, “Don’t get me wrong. I do appreciate the attempt. But I can’t.” Then she reached up with one hand and touched his cheek in an almost intimate gesture before she turned and walked away. No, Alistair decided, that was an intimate gesture. He could count on one hand the number of people who could get away with touching Malcolm like that. One of them was the current subject of a templar hunt across Thedas, another had been killed by Rendon Howe in the attack on Highever, and the other had just walked away from Malcolm, leaving the prince with a rather disconcerted look on his face. 

Then Malcolm’s shoulders drooped slightly and he strode towards the throng of soldiers gathered near the tents. Filing away the incident for future reference, Alistair went to find Fergus. Horses procured once again, the group set off for Highever Castle. Fergus explained that they were taking one of the roads close to the forest, which would allow them to reach the castle by nightfall if they were lucky. Alistair didn’t have the heart to tell him that the Wardens didn’t tend to have the best luck. 

Within sight of the main road, he felt the tug of the taint at his blood. The tug wasn’t far, though, and felt entirely too close for it just to be making itself apparent. Too late, Alistair realized that the darkspawn were under them, and he’d barely called out a warning when the darkspawn burst out of the dirt underneath the Wardens and Fergus. Magic crackled through the air, a spell cast by one of two emissaries. Alistair couldn’t dispel it in time and the crushing prison wrapped around Malcolm and lifted him into the air. _Well_ , Alistair thought, _at least when he gets dropped out of it, he won’t hit his head on a shield_. Then the king summoned a smite and knocked down the offending emissary. Oghren was there to take advantage and brought his double-headed battleaxe down into the darkspawn’s chest with a sickening crunch. 

Alistair heard Malcolm fall out of the dissipated spell with a swear and a thud. But he couldn’t spare the time to check on him, as Anders called out a second emissary in the pack of genlocks and hurlocks. He went to smite that one too, but noticed a flash of auburn hair amidst the grey, corrupted skulls of the darkspawn and held back. Líadan had jumped into the melee with her daggers and a smite to the emissary would drain her mana, too. Her having a ranged weapon would’ve worked out really nicely right then, he decided.

Behind him, Malcolm said, “Fergus, get _back_! And keep your mouth shut. You aren’t a Warden. If any of that blood—”

“I know. I’m not daft. I’ve fought darkspawn before. Stop acting like Mother.”

“Acting like Mother? Really? You’re going _there_?”

“Feel free to sodding join us over here at any time to kill the rest of these darkspawn!” Oghren shouted at them as he cleaved another genlock in two. “I’ve got this elf prancing everywhere and it isn’t sodding right!”

“I’ll be prancing on your manhood after this for that, Oghren!” Líadan replied.

Alistair quickly turned and motioned Malcolm forward, earning him a nod of thanks from the frustrated Fergus. Malcolm readied his sword and scowled at the battered steel shield he’d borrowed off one of the Highever guards. He’d lost his silverite Grey Warden shield in the cave-in, but it was a weapon more easily replaced than a stave. Malcolm at his side, Alistair yelled for Oghren to get Líadan out of the way so he could smite the emissary. Hearing her name, the elf turned and shot him a questioning look. He jerked his head to the side, telling her to get out of the way. She nodded once in acknowledgement, and spun back around just in time to catch a studded sword hilt to the face, instantly sending her to the ground. Both Oghren and Malcolm growled unintelligible things and headed to drag her out of the melee. Oghren got to her first, reaching down with a strong hand and quickly pulling her unconscious body out of the crowd. Malcolm jumped in between them and the darkspawn, alternately using his sword and shield to keep the darkspawn at bay. Alistair noticed with a slight grin that the first darkspawn to be knocked down, with Gunnar finishing it off by tearing out its throat, was the one who’d hurt Líadan. Malcolm was also aware enough to remain out of the range of Alistair’s coming smite, as it would knock him down even if he wasn’t a mage. After a quick glance around to make sure that Anders and Velanna were also still out of range, Alistair hit the emissary with the smite mid-spell, and sent him sprawling to the ground. Velanna immediately summoned roots to shoot up from the dirt, impaling the emissary and killing it.

Once the emissaries were dead, the rest of the darkspawn fell quickly between Nathaniel’s arrows and the back-to-back bladework from Alistair and Malcolm. Gunnar was sent to round up the few horses that had bolted at the start of the ambush, while Anders knelt beside the unconscious Líadan. When he noticed the rest of the Wardens and Fergus hovering over them, Anders said, “She was just knocked out cold. She had a concussion a few days ago, so she was very apt to get another one if she took another blow to the head, which she did. I’m going to heal the damage from the spikes from that hilt first before I wake her up, so I suggest you all make yourselves busy elsewhere and let me do my work.” The mage leveled a determined look at Malcolm. “You, especially.”

For a moment, it seemed like Malcolm would object, but in the end, he simply turned and started rolling darkspawn bodies into a heap. Alistair joined him, realizing that after the mini-confrontation with Líadan at the foothills camp, and then Líadan getting injured, Malcolm probably needed some good joking around to get him to lighten up. Especially what with the very serious matter of the templars they’d be facing soon. “So, how was that crushing prison?” Alistair asked, dropping the putrid body of a genlock on the growing pile. “Was it everything you remembered?”

“And then some,” Malcolm replied. “Just like old times, even.”

Alistair smiled. “See? Told you! I knew you missed it. You looked so very happy while trapped in that spell. You know, I bet Velanna would be willing to cast it on you for those times when you want to relive your happy memories of the Blight.”

Malcolm slowly turned to peer curiously at his brother. “Were you hit in the head?”

“No. Why do people always ask me that? You just seemed cranky.”

“We did just get attacked by darkspawn, you know. By surprise, even though we’re Wardens. That should be reason enough for any sort of cranky.” Malcolm rummaged through a side pouch on his belt, came up with the firestarter potion, and sprinkled it onto the top of the pile. The darkspawn bodies burst into flame and both men cringed at the sudden heat.

Alistair resisted rolling his eyes. “You were cranky before we were attacked. I saw your face. It was all... cranky. Like a cranky-face.”

“Because I’m stuck using this awful shield. It’s more dents and rust than anything else.”

“No, that’s not it, either.”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes and studied Alistair. Then he said, “Whatever it is you saw, I don’t want to talk about it. Mostly because I can’t figure out what to say because her refusal to use a bow makes no sense at all.”

“I didn’t even know she was an archer.”

“She used to be, back with her clan. Before she found out she was a mage, but even after, she kept up with it.” He frowned. “But not that much more after... oh. I see. Right, I’m an insensitive jerk.”

“Glad I could be of help,” Alistair said cheerfully, wishing he knew what his brother was talking about. 

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Go soak your head.”

“You know, I don’t think you’re allowed to say things like that to the king.”

“So throw me in Fort Drakon for it. Or not, I really don’t care.” He frowned again, this time at the rapidly burning pile of darkspawn bodies. “You know, it still doesn’t make much sense that she would... ” he trailed off as movement from Líadan caught his attention, and then he walked over to where Anders still knelt next to her.

Alistair shrugged, realizing there was far more going on than he’d once thought and probably more than he’d ever understand. Then Gunnar returned with the horses and Alistair went and helped Fergus and Nathaniel sort things out among them. They had gotten lucky in that none of the horses had been injured or killed, as that most likely would’ve necessitated another night in the field instead of making it to Highever. As it was, they would be late, and would have to ask the mages to light as much of the way as they could once it got dark. They also had torches in their packs, though Alistair wasn’t sure he could wrangle a lit torch and reliably ride a horse. Then again, it couldn’t be much different than using a sword on horseback, could it? Except with swords he didn’t have to worry about setting himself or the horse on fire. 

“I was in the close combat because I was fighting darkspawn! What do you expect me to do, sit back and wait?” came Líadan’s outraged voice.

Malcolm’s tone wasn’t much lessened in volume and it carried across to the horses just as well as the elf’s. “You’re wearing leathers, you can’t just go wading in like Oghren—”

“I’ve been in the middle of it before and you never objected!”

“But not the whole time! Usually you’re at the edges of the melee or hitting things with magical attacks from a distance—”

“Is this about not using a bow? Because if it is—”

“It’s _not_! I was going to say that you’re still recovering from serious injuries and if you were going to fight, fighting from a distance would be a lot better.”

“He has a point,” said Anders.

“Shut up and stay out of this,” Líadan told him.

Nathaniel snorted quietly, and ducked his head behind one of the horses.

“Oh, I wouldn’t have said a word,” Fergus whispered, and moved to stand next to Alistair. “Malcolm’s gone and stepped into it. He’s gotten her right worked up and it’s his own fault. I saw this all the time between our parents. One would be worried about the other and, somehow, end up mistaking it for being angry at the other. Instead of waiting it out, they’d end up getting into some sort of yelling match over what amounted to nothing. Not that anyone would _tell_ them that, or they’d get their own heads bitten off like Anders just did.”

“So this is normal?” Alistair whispered back.

“More normal than either one of them would ever admit.” Fergus glanced up at the sky, checking the position of the sun. “Except we really don’t have the time to indulge them in a lovers’ spat at the moment. Someone will have to interrupt to get us on our way.”

Alistair blinked and looked at Fergus. “Lovers? You think?”

“Not yet. Close, though. I should put coin into Oghren’s pool before it’s too late.”

“Well, I’m not interrupting,” said Nathaniel. “I rather like the idea of keeping my head on my shoulders, thank you very much.”

“She would kill me without thinking twice,” Velanna said. Alistair found that he couldn’t disagree with that assumption.

Oghren tucked his flask away in a pouch. “You all need to grow some stones.” With that, he ambled over towards the arguing pair and the quieted healer, but the dwarf did keep his battleaxe out. Alistair couldn’t blame him. He would have, too, and he didn’t even have the courage to go over there in the first place. Using his Oghren brand of charm, the dwarf managed to make Líadan laugh and Malcolm smile, while Anders just looked completely relieved that Líadan hadn’t killed him for speaking out of turn. Though the elf kept glaring at Malcolm, the group mounted and got underway, leaving the ashes of the darkspawn behind them.

Night fell before they got to Highever and they didn’t arrive at the castle until a few hours past sundown. Alistair cringed inside once he saw the castle’s walls, remembering the complications that awaited them within, and wished for the more simple task of killing darkspawn. It was so much easier, being just a Warden. You killed darkspawn and the occasional archdemon, and then called it a day. There was no responsibility for the population of an entire country, and no worrying about what ramifications your decisions would have on a nation’s political stability. As much as he wished he was still only a Warden, he wasn’t. His brief foray back into Wardening had proven that much—that even his actions while in the guise of a Warden had far greater consequences than they once had. There wasn’t any going back and this trip had shown him that reality. Foolhardy as it was, it had been a lesson. He intended to put it to good use. After all, he couldn’t let all that time getting yelled at for it go to waste


	45. Chapter 45

**Chapter 45**

“O Maker, hear my cry:

Guide me through the blackest nights

Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked

Make me to rest in the warmest places.”

— _Canticle of Transfigurations 12:1_

**Malcolm**

It was after midnight when they finally entered the castle. At Fergus’ order, the templars were not summoned, but the Wardens in residence were notified of the party’s arrival. Riordan waited in the courtyard with a glowering Fiona beside him, both of them wrapped in thick cloaks against the chill of the late autumn night’s air. Servants appeared and relieved them of their horses and packs, allowing the Wardens and Fergus to continue directly into the main hall. After quick greetings to his Wardens, Riordan fell into step with Fergus and started discussing things that had happened while Fergus had been in Drake’s Fall. Malcolm supposed he should be listening, but was too tired to care as much as he should. If it was really that important for him to know, they’d tell him directly. Otherwise, he’d keep walking until he encountered a bed, and then promptly pass out. 

Fiona fixed both of her sons with a frigid look before sweeping behind them to walk with Líadan. Having noticed the look, Líadan offered Malcolm a small grin, clearly reveling in his discomfort. He slightly narrowed his eyes at her, only serving to make her grin more. Well, at least that meant she wasn’t angry with him anymore if she was back to teasing him. Then Fiona said something and Líadan turned her attention to the elf walking beside her. 

“She has a nasty glare,” Alistair said quietly from next to Malcolm

“Fiona or Líadan?”

“Technically both, but I was referring to Fiona. I think it was warmer in Drake’s Fall than it was when she glared at us like that.” He shivered for effect. “Maker’s breath, that was awful. I really want her to not be mad at us anymore.”

“You’re reacting like this from one glare?” While Fiona’s glare had been harsh, it wasn’t anything Malcolm hadn’t experienced before from Eleanor Cousland while growing up. Oh. Malcolm stifled a laugh. “You aren’t used to it. That glare? That’s one all women have, I think. Like Fergus said, the teyrna had the same glare whenever she got mad at us when we were children. I’ll admit, it’s really uncomfortable to be under, but I’m not so sure that it’s worth staying in Drake’s Fall over suffering through it.”

“Speak for yourself. I plan on pleading for forgiveness at the earliest possible second. Besides, you’re only feeling as okay with this as you are because Líadan isn’t mad at you anymore. If she was still mad, you’d be acting like me.”

Malcolm frowned, mostly because Alistair was right. He also didn’t dare look behind him again, because he knew Fiona would glare. “Fine. You’re right. Try not to gloat.”

“Hard to gloat when you know someone is that angry with you.”

“True. I should know. I have someone angry with me like that almost all the time.”

“It’s your sparkling personality.” The column followed Fergus and Riordan into the warmth of the main hall. On entering, they discovered that Arl Eamon waited inside, seated in an armchair by the roaring fire, and looking nearly as surly as Fiona. “Oh, Andraste’s flaming sword,” Alistair muttered. “I thought I’d have a full night’s sleep before having to talk to him.”

Wynne rose from the chair across from Eamon as the Wardens walked inside, greeting each of them with a smile, and a “Your Majesty” to Alistair. 

“Oh, come on, Wynne, stop it with the titles. You’ve known me for too long to be calling me that,” Alistair said, pulling the mage into a brief hug. “You’re looking good. How was Cumberland?”

“Is he actually making small talk?” Anders whispered as Wynne attempted an answer.

“Aye,” said Oghren, who then turned to Fergus. “All right, I don’t know about the rest of these blighters, but I’d like a bed and some sodding sleep. Think you could hook me up with that, Cousland?”

“I suppose it could be arranged.” Fergus smiled and signaled one of the servants who had followed them to the main hall. A brisk nod, and then the servant disappeared, presumably to notify others and fetch more, even though Malcolm figured most of the Wardens knew their way around the castle already from previous stays. However, it was the host’s responsibility to keep guests comfortable, and that included not letting them get lost. “Though some people will have to share rooms, as between the templars and the royal guards and the Wardens, we’re running low on space.”

“Líadan needs to rest as soon as possible,” said Anders. “She was already fairly beat up from the cave-in, and that blow to the head in the skirmish earlier didn’t help.”

“I’m fine, Anders,” Líadan said. “You’re being overdramatic.” Though she swayed slightly as she said it, and ended up leaning against Fiona to remain upright.

Fiona lifted a bemused brow. “Really? So if I step away from you right now, you won’t fall on your face?”

Malcolm snorted and Líadan glared at him. He smirked, retaliation for earlier complete.

“No, I won’t fall on my face. My side, maybe. If—” Her words were cut off by a yawn. “Okay. Maybe you’re right.”

“I think I should get that in writing,” said Anders.

“Have her stay in my room,” Fiona said to Fergus. “She needs a healer to watch her for the next couple of days, anyway. Wynne and I can bring her upstairs.”

“I believe that’s a good idea,” said Wynne. Her hands were already glowing as she checked Líadan’s condition for herself.

“Creators, you’re as bad as old women,” Líadan grumbled. 

“That’s because I _am_ an old woman,” Wynne told her.

“Well, you’ll have to pardon me for not being quite ready to assume that title yet,” said Fiona. “And watch who you’re calling old, young lady.”

Líadan muttered something under her breath, and then said, “I’m sorry. Really, I’m just tired. I promise I don’t have a concussion anymore.” She frowned. “I don’t think.”

Fergus nodded at Fiona. “I’ll have a servant bring her pack up to your quarters.” Then he looked around to the other Wardens. “I need Malcolm and Alistair to stay here for now, but the rest of you are free to go sleep if you wish. We can all meet tomorrow morning over breakfast to discuss matters.”

“Come along, Wynne and I will help you upstairs,” Fiona said to Líadan. “Anders, why don’t you come with us and explain what you had to do to heal her?” She phrased it like a question, but to everyone in the room, including Anders, it sounded like an order. Anders obeyed and walked out with the other mages. A servant trailed behind them, presumably to show Anders to his room once they were done. Just before they were out the door, Fiona motioned for Velanna to follow. Gunnar barked once at Malcolm, and then set off behind the tired, scowling Líadan. Malcolm resisted rolling his eyes at his dog’s blatant show of favoritism. Nathaniel and Oghren cleared out soon after, once more servants appeared to lead them to rooms.

Watching the empty door where others had departed, Malcolm realized he didn’t want to turn around, because he knew Eamon was there and waiting for his moment to speak. Except Malcolm knew he had to take responsibility for what he’d allowed Alistair to do, so he squared his shoulders and turned to face the others remaining in the room. 

Arl Eamon had left his chair in the meantime and stood in front of the fire, arms crossed over his chest. He nodded slowly to both Alistair and Malcolm. “Your Majesty. Your Highness. It’s good to know you are both safe and alive,” he said in a measured tone.

Malcolm decided that he didn’t like this type of angry. He’d been ready for livid, angry shouting, not this deceptive calm. He shot an uneasy look at Alistair, who seemed as shocked as he was, and stared openly at the arl. That wouldn’t do them any good. Then Alistair scrubbed his hand over his face, as if wiping away his surprise. “Eamon, what happened was my fault. I take full responsibility and will not let you blame Malcolm for any of this.”

“I could have said no,” Malcolm said, refusing to let his brother take the fall.

“No, you couldn’t have,” said Fergus as he settled into the chair Wynne had vacated. “We all know it. Everyone who knows you knows that you feel guilty about helping to make Alistair king. We talked about it the other day. You couldn’t have said no to him any more than you could say no to me. Alistair is the elder brother. He’s the one who should know better than to press the issue like he did.”

“But he wasn’t raised as a noble like we were. He wasn’t given the same lessons.” 

“I knew what I was doing. Sort of.” Alistair sighed. “Look, I’m not going to skirt around the issue. In the end, it was my decision, not yours. I’m the one who abandoned my duty to try and pretend that everything was like it was before I became king. We were lucky to get out alive and I’m only beginning to truly realize how badly things could have turned out. It’s not something I’ll be doing again, I know that much.”

“That will be a relief for your next chancellor, then,” Eamon said without rancor. 

Alistair resumed staring at the arl. “So what you said before Drake’s Fall wasn’t a bluff.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Eamon—”

The arl lifted a hand. “Please, let me speak.” Alistair nodded, and then Eamon continued, “I’ll admit, when I first found out that you had gone with Malcolm, I was angry. Furious, really. For days. Then I remembered that you are young. Younger even than Maric was when he officially became king. And I...” he trailed off, ran his fingers through his neatly trimmed beard, and then smiled ruefully. “I am not so young. I’m not sure exactly what that poison did to me, but I believe it took several years from my life. I look and feel like a much older man than I am by age. My hair was not completely grey like it is now before I fell ill. I simply cannot keep up. A younger chancellor would have seen what you did coming, would have been able to go after you, but I did not, and I could not. I simply cannot take the stress. I will stay on through this business with the Chantry, but once we’ve dealt with that problem, I will be returning to Redcliffe. And you will have to find a new chancellor.”

Malcolm couldn’t figure out if Eamon was working some sort angle or not. He glanced over at Fergus, who was behind the arl, for a more knowledgeable second opinion. Fergus understood the unasked question, but only shrugged in reply. Malcolm studied Eamon again, and this time noticed that some of the tight lines around the arl’s eyes had smoothed, giving the appearance of a very relieved man. Perhaps, Malcolm realized, that’s exactly what Eamon was. Relieved. If Eamon really did feel that way about stepping down as chancellor, maybe it meant he’d misjudged the man’s reasons for becoming chancellor in the first place. Maybe he’d even misjudged Eamon’s reasons for wanting Alistair on the throne. He’d long assumed Eamon not only championed the Theirin bloodline, but also craved a bit of power himself and wanted to be the one behind the throne. Except now the man was willingly giving it up, or so it appeared on the surface. Frankly, the entire scenario was making his head hurt to figure it out while he was this tired. “You’re serious?” Malcolm finally asked Eamon.

“Quite.”

“And it’s really because I let Alistair go with us to the Deep Roads?” Malcolm had seen the hint of truth behind Eamon’s words when he’d said he’d resign before Drake’s Fall. He just didn’t think it would’ve come to fruition this soon, even with Alistair’s little adventure. 

“Not quite. It was a factor in my final decision, yes. But, I had already been considering it for some time. I didn’t take it seriously until after Alistair had gone with you and the other Wardens. Once I truly thought of the idea, I couldn’t seem to let it go.” He shrugged. “Here I am saying that I am not as young as I once was, and yet I received news from Isolde yesterday that she is with child again. I believe that had the most influence on my decision.”

“That’s fantastic,” Fergus said softly. “Congratulations.” A tinge of jealousy touched his voice, something only Malcolm noticed. He gave Fergus a sympathetic look and wondered if his foster brother would ever remarry. Yes, he would. It would be a duty, at the very least, given that Fergus would be the last of the Cousland if he didn’t marry and have children. And Couslands always did their duty. It was a trait the family had instilled in Malcolm, as well. It just took him longer to learn and accept his duty than it did most.

“I agree. That’s wonderful news,” said Alistair. “Do what you have to for your family, Eamon. I don’t want to stand between you and them, especially with a new child. I can find another chancellor. And if I can’t, I’ll muddle through somehow.”

Eamon smiled, and if Malcolm wasn’t mistaken, there was a hint of mischief in the older man’s eyes. “You could get married.”

Alistair dropped into one of the chairs by the wall. “You always come back to that. I’d rather you yell at me for going into the Deep Roads, you know. I was ready for that.”

“As was I,” said Malcolm. “Congratulations, Eamon.” He made certain he sounded sincere. For the most part, he was. He just hoped that the child wouldn’t be another mage. Considering how everything had gone with Connor, he couldn’t see a second child turning out to be a mage going well. 

Eamon nodded his thanks towards Malcolm. Then he said to Alistair, “Even once I am not chancellor, I will still be reminding you of the need Ferelden has for Theirins. And Ferelden will eventually need a queen.”

“Oh, not again. You’re going to mention Anora, aren’t you? Is this where you’re going to spring another one of your ‘you should consider giving serious thought to marrying Anora, Alistair’ talks on me? Because I did consider it, and then I rejected it. Why? She’s Loghain’s daughter.”

“It isn’t like she looks like him,” Malcolm pointed out. “Thank the Maker.”

Fergus snorted.

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Looks mean nothing in this case. Loghain is her father. Loghain. The man executed for treason? The man I _ordered_ executed for treason? I doubt very much that she would ever consent to marrying me.”

Malcolm raised a brow at Alistair. “Are you saying that you’d ask in the first place?”

“That’s not what I said. Whose side are you on?”

“It was a simple question. No need for you to get all defensive.” His weariness catching up with him, Malcolm brushed past Eamon and draped himself in the chair across from Fergus before he fell over. “This makes me wonder something, though, Alistair. If Anora had a different father, would you be thinking differently than you are?”

“What kind of a question is that?” Alistair narrowed his eyes at his younger brother.

“An excellent one, in my opinion,” said Eamon.

“Why, thank you.” Malcolm smiled at Alistair. “Now, were Anora any other noble, this wouldn’t be such a big problem, would it?”

“I thought I needed a new chancellor, not a wife.”

“You need both.” Eamon finally allowed his arms to relax, moving them from where they’d been tightly crossed over his chest and down to his sides. “Anora could honestly do both jobs.”

“But you’ve gone on and on about there needing to be heirs. Anora was with Cailan for five years and they didn’t have a single child.”

“We saw a letter you sent to Cailan, Eamon,” Malcolm said once he noticed Alistair hesitating to ask what he really wanted to. Besides, better for him to continue to incur the arl’s wrath than Alistair. His tiredness also continued to make him not care much. “You know, where you asked him to set aside Anora in favor of a new wife who could provide heirs since Anora hadn’t. That’s what Alistair isn’t telling you. He wants to know why you’d push Anora now when you were trying to push Cailan away from her. ”

“You just aren’t pulling any punches tonight, are you?” Eamon asked after a moment of perplexed staring.

“I’m too tired to bother trying.” Malcolm went to rub one of his eyes with his hand, and then stopped and frowned when he noticed how dirty his fingers were. He couldn’t quite remember the last time he’d had an actual bath, and not just some quick scrub-down with snow.

Fergus started laughing. “There have been times that you were trying to be tactful?”

Malcolm glared at him over his study of his fingernails. They were also appallingly dirty. He probably shouldn’t have been touching anything or anyone, possibly not even sitting on any furniture, either. Not that he was going to get up. “As a matter of fact, yes, there _have_. There was the Landsmeet. And...” he trailed off as he tried to think of other times when he had, in fact, employed tact. Then he gave up. “You know what, this isn’t about me. This is about Alistair. And Anora. Sort of.”

“If I didn’t know better, little brother, I’d say you were drunk right now.”

“He is overtired,” Wynne said as she walked through the side door, “and should be asleep in bed.”

Malcolm looked over at Alistair. “See, _now_ it’s like old times.” Then he gave Wynne a cheeky grin. “Will you tuck me in and tell me a bedtime story with griffons in it?”

“Maker’s mercy, I did _not_ miss that,” Wynne muttered.

Alistair beamed at her. “Sure you did! Also, did you know that Malcolm is a mage? I mean, all this time we were traveling with yet another apostate, and we had no idea. No idea at all. The nerve he has, not telling us like that.”

Wynne sighed wearily. “Alistair, it’s far more likely that griffons still exist than it is that Malcolm is truly a mage.”

“He’s just trying to change the subject away from him,” said Malcolm, who then motioned towards himself, Eamon, and Fergus. “We were talking about him and how he should marry Anora. You know, taking care of the whole lack of a wife and a chancellor thing all in one fell swoop.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” Alistair said, acting hurt.

“Not when you’re helping to spread those rumors about me being a mage, I’m not. And if I were really a mage, we would’ve gotten Líadan out of that cave-in a lot sooner. Anders did most of the work with those focused arcane bolts or whatever it was he was using. Oghren and I just kind of carried out the dirt and rocks while he recovered his mana.” Malcolm slumped back into the armchair. “Felt pretty useless. I mean, Oghren at least had stone sense and could figure out what to do, but I had nothing useful to contribute. Just sitting there while she was trapped behind this massive wall of rock. And she was hurt, we didn’t know how badly, and the times when she was unconscious were awful because I didn’t know if she’d wake up—”

Fergus got to his feet and started bodily lifting Malcolm from the chair. “I think it’s time you got some sleep. You’re getting morose now. Did you sleep at all after the cave-in?”

“When we got her out?” He squinted as he tried to remember. “I slept after that. Couldn’t before, kept thinking she might die and I’d miss her trying to talk to us. She had a concussion, so we had to keep her awake. Did that by talking.”

“She told me about that,” said Wynne. 

Malcolm leaned heavily on Fergus, not bothering to try and fight as his brother escorted him towards the door. He looked at Wynne as they passed her, suddenly concerned that something was wrong with Líadan and she wasn’t telling him because he was tired. “Is she okay? Is—”

Wynne put a comforting hand on his shoulder, amusement quirking at her lips. “She’s fine, Malcolm. She’s just asleep, like you need to be, I might add.”

“I’ll get him there,” Fergus said. “Come on, let’s get you up to your room.”

As Malcolm followed Fergus out of the main hall and into the corridor, he heard snippets of conversation from the others. Eamon commenting that Malcolm still seemed to be focused too much on Líadan for nothing to be going on, and then Alistair asking him to leave it alone. Finally, he heard Wynne snap, “Eamon Guerrin, you leave those two alone!” On hearing that, Malcolm started chuckling.

“What are you laughing at?” Fergus asked. “And watch the stairs.”

“Wynne just told off Eamon about me and Líadan. Never thought she’d tell off the arl. I mean, Wynne will tell off anyone in the name of being pedantic, but I wasn’t sure that extended to the nobility until now. I mean, nobility other than me and Alistair, since I’m not sure if we count since she knew us before the whole everyone knowing us as Theirins thing. I think I need to thank her in the morning, if I remember.”

“Somehow, I’m not sure you’ll remember.” He swung them around a corner and through another doorway. “There’s your room. And Wynne spent a lot of time discussing things with Eamon while you were gone, so I’m not nearly as surprised as you are. Not sure if you’ve noticed, but she’s fairly protective of all of you who traveled with her during the Blight. You, Alistair, and Líadan, in particular, are like grandchildren to her.”

“That so?” Malcolm saw the bed and headed straight for its inviting softness. 

Fergus pulled him to a stop by the shoulders. “No bed yet. Bath first. Servants are already bringing up the tub and the hot water. I told them you’d thank them heartily later with heartfelt words and some extra sovereigns since it’s so late.”

He didn’t even have a chance to start objecting as servants were already clattering down the hallway and bustling into his room. Fergus told him not to fall asleep in the water and bid him goodnight after the servants departed. As soon as Malcolm dropped into the steaming water, he realized he owed both the servants and his brother a great deal of thanks. He barely managed to wrest himself out of the tub, dry off, and throw on fresh clothing before he collapsed on to the bed. Within seconds, he was asleep.

A bevy of unfamiliar servants woke him up at Fergus’ behest, rousing him from slumber despite his mumbled protests. Fergus had even remembered to include a servant capable of fixing the hack job the dragon and Anders had inflicted on Malcolm’s hair. The older woman declared her work complete and presented him with a mirror. For the first time since the fight with the high dragon, he got a good look at himself as he sat in the chair and stared. His eyes went wide at seeing exactly how short the final trim had rendered his hair. It was barely longer than a fingertip. Then he remembered how quickly it had dried even last night when it was just a tiny bit longer, and he considered keeping it this way. 

“I like it,” came Líadan’s voice from the doorway as she walked inside between the servants ducking out. She ran her fingers through his hair and grinned. “Yes, I think I do.”

“Then it stays,” he replied, unable to hide the smile.

“Always do what the young ladies tell you, that’s my advice, young man,” said the servant, who reached out and ruffled his hair once before leaving the room. The older woman was the last one to leave and closed the door behind her.

“Now _she_ is wise.” Líadan draped her arms over his shoulders, resting her hands on his chest, her chin perched on his shoulder. “Also, turns out I didn’t have to kill for that hot bath. Did you? Because you stopped smelling like the inside of a darkspawn’s boot.”

He laughed, both at her description and the delicious tickling her breath was doing to his ear. “No murder necessary. Fergus made sure I bathed before I touched the bed.” He turned to face her. “And when did you happen to smell the inside of a darkspawn’s boot?”

An impish smile curved along her mouth. “I didn’t. I guessed. Maybe they smell better than you did earlier. It wouldn’t have taken much.” Her fingers moving lightly across the thin fabric of his linen shirt was incredibly distracting. Every other time they’d been this physically close, they’d both been wearing armor and now... they were not. He’d yet to put on his mail, still undecided if he should present that much of a defensive front, and she’d appeared in the simple linen shirt and leather leggings she wore under her drakeskin. Part of him recognized that she’d made the choice to wear armor later today, while another part of him wondered if she’d chosen not to don it on purpose before paying him a visit. Them not wearing layers of thick armor around one another, he realized, was dangerous in ways he’d never thought it would be for them.

It wasn’t just battle armor, either. Not only did her leathers and his silverite protect them from things they thought could harm them, but so had their denial. Even still, their refusal to say certain things to each other, for him to tell her everything he felt because he didn’t want things to end in pain from something Morrigan might do, was a defense. For her to tell him the things she’d said in Elvish to him while trapped in the cave-in, to Velanna during the many arguments she had with the other Dalish elf, that protected them, too. Yet, some of it was gone, the first layers stripped away out of a greater fear of losing all opportunity to _say_ and _act_. As Wardens, they were people who said what needed to be said and did what needed to be done. As people, though, human and elf, they girded themselves with anger, guarding against fear and worry, as if being open with another person constituted weakness. The very thing Malcolm had claimed wasn’t weakness with Morrigan, when, in the end, it had been. 

Except that it hadn’t. It had proven a strength he hadn’t known existed, one that gave him the ability to choose the right thing to do, no matter how much it hurt. Morrigan had gone after that and he’d thought himself bereft. Yet he discovered that strength had been there the entire time, waiting quietly, without fanfare or other announcement. Everything that he’d accomplished in the time since then, he’d done because _she_ had been there. Líadan was still right there with him, even now. And, he realized, she was much closer than he’d originally thought. That she was doing that thing with her fingers on his chest _on purpose_. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to act, but he couldn’t. The image of her walking away after he’d spoken to her in camp, ever the skittish wild animal, appeared in his mind. If he breathed or blinked, she might step away. If he did what he truly wanted to do in that moment, she might even flee. He remained still, even at feeling one of her hands shifting back to rest against his neck while the other played with the laces of his shirt.

“This is much better,” she said. “You smell like leather and linen. Like home.” Then she closed the scant distance left between their mouths and kissed him. At first, he didn’t respond, so convinced he’d been that she would run that he couldn’t bring himself to move. But her lips held no reticence now, no hint of the shyness of the first time she had initiated this sort of thing. They plied at his, a convincing argument joined by her body when she slipped out from behind him, and onto his lap. As she straddled him, she never broke the kiss. His arms moved of their own accord, hands sliding up her sides, along curves he never thought he would feel. He felt muscle and sinew under his fingertips, the body of a fighter, a woman who could match him. And then there was softness, there under his thumbs, when he skimmed up far enough along her body. 

She didn’t hit him with lightning, she didn’t stop him as he dared to leave his hands there. Instead, her fingers on one hand splayed on the back of his head, drawing him closer as she deepened the kiss. The other hand slipped under his shirt, warm hands gliding up the bare skin of his chest, and then around to his back, pulling him flush with her body. Her actions gave him the courage to respond in kind, both his hands sliding up to brush against bare skin and softness, reveling in the feeling, and the realization that she hadn’t yet struck him with lightning. He dared to hope that she wouldn’t at all. As he broke away from her lips and kissed her bared skin where neck met shoulder, her lack of protest told him she might have no plans for lightning. The sound she made when he nipped her in the same spot made him certain. Then she mimicked him, finding the same place on his body, touching him with lips and teeth as he had done to her.

He decided that they were wearing far too many layers now, yet held back at rectifying the problem, unwilling to scare her away. He held back, but she acted, leaning away just far enough to peel off her thin top and breastband. Then she helped him divest himself of his shirt, dropping it to the stone floor, forgotten before it even left their fingers. Bodies and mouths pressed together again in a renewed frenzy, closer than before and still not close enough. And there were a hundred other things they should have been doing, a hundred things that should have stopped them, but when nimble fingers dipped to tug at the laces of his breeches, he found he didn’t care. When he mirrored her, his fingers caressing the skin beyond the waistband of her leather leggings, and she made a noise of pleasure he’d never heard her make, he knew that if he stopped, she would most assuredly hit him with lightning.

Then the door rattled on its hinges as someone pounded on it. “Sodding wake up, you bloody nug-licker! Those templars are starting to get on my nerves and that son-of-a-whore Fergus says I can’t kill them!”

“Oghren, if you don’t leave right this second, _I_ will kill _you_ ,” Líadan shouted at the door.

“Oh, sodding great. I got the wrong room. Well, you need to wake up, too. Apparently you’re needed. Or something. I haven’t had enough flagons yet. Now I need to go find that lazy excuse for a prince.” Oghren’s further muttering was interrupted by another voice.

“His room is right there,” said Fergus, his voice growing louder as he got closer to the door. “I’ve already had servants up there to wake him and put his appearance to rights. Also, my mother was not a whore, and if you insist she is again, I will have to insist on barring you from more of the Highever ale. And we both know how much you wouldn’t want that.”

Another grumble from the dwarf. “No, no I wouldn’t. Fine, your mother wasn’t a whore. She’s a wonderful woman worthy of praise and song in every tavern in Orzammar. Better?”

“Much.”

Malcolm shook has he tried to stifle his laughter against Líadan’s bare shoulder. He felt her shift and knew she was glaring at him, but he couldn’t help the amusement. 

“Wait, if this is the nughumper’s room, why did that little blighter of an elf yell at me?”

“Blast, I forgot to put in my bet,” Fergus said.

“By the tits of my Ancestors! It’s my day!” Another knock sounded on the door. “You hear that? You young folks just made old Oghren a whole lot of gold!”

“No, we didn’t do any such thing,” Líadan answered. “Some _dwarf_ mentioned templars.”

Oghren let loose a string of swears Malcolm had never heard, eyes widening as the dwarf showed no signs of stopping. “That must have been a ridiculous amount of gold,” Malcolm whispered. Líadan frowned at him momentarily, but then was caught by a laugh of her own.

“Malcolm, are you even in there?” Fergus asked over Oghren’s cursing. “Or is Líadan just messing with Oghren? And don’t try to have her answer if you _are_ there just to buy yourselves more time. There isn’t time. They’re waiting in the main hall right now, and First Enchanter Irving and Knight-Commander Greagoir have arrived as well. They seem anxious. And by anxious, I mean they want you down there _yesterday_.”

Malcolm reluctantly said, “I’m here.”

“Good. Now get moving, little brother. And wear armor. I don’t like the looks of those Orlesian templars. If you aren’t down there within ten minutes, I will come up here again, and I _will_ open this door, locked or no.”

“Fine.”

“Sodding templars,” Líadan said. Then she moved away and the air was cold against his skin, already missing her warmth.

 


	46. Chapter 46

**Chapter 46**

“The wolf pack circled, ever closer, and he

Who felled boars and bears with his bright blade

Knew fear.”

—from _The Saga of Dane and the Werewolf_ , 4:50 Black

**Malcolm**

Líadan was waiting for him as soon as he exited his room. She leaned against the wall, arms loosely folded over her drakeskin cuirass, hint of a smirk on her lips. It widened into a half-smile when he appeared. “What I really stopped by for was—” she started saying.

“So, what happened wasn’t planned?” He closed the door and turned to see her reaction, which was an adorable flush of red spreading under the fine points of the tattoos on her cheeks. 

“Ha, no. That was spontaneous. Obviously. Just...” she trailed off and ducked her head down. “Anyway.” She coughed slightly and looked up at him, the blush still present, but somewhat lessened. “Just so you know, Fiona? Seriously pissed at you and Alistair. I wanted to warn you before you went downstairs and had to face everyone. Like her. And the templars. And whoever else has decided to visit from Creators know where on Thedas.”

He looked down at her as she fell into step next to him. “So that,” he paused and glanced back at the door, “was a _warning_?”

She rolled her eyes, and then clipped the back of his knee with her leg, allowing her to grab him by the collar of his cuirass and push him against the wall at the top of the stairs. “Okay, I’m warning you, right now, not to bring that up if there’s anyone else around.”

“And if I do? Lighting?” He was doing his best not to act frightened, but he’d forgotten how very foreign and Dalish she could be at times. Like right now, with the threatening and sudden near-violence. Not that he thought she’d do him actual damage, but the wrong move at any point, even with teasing, could send her running. And he knew, from experience, that she could run _fast_.

“No. It doesn’t seem work with you.” Her right hand let go of the silverite and moved up to his cheek, danger changed to caress in an instant. “And I’m not threatening you. Not exactly.”

He raised his eyebrows, desperately trying not to smirk. “Really? You kind of threw me against a wall. Just thought I’d point that out.” Sometimes—and this was one of them—he wondered if he still had a death wish, going and saying things like that. Well, if he managed not to suggest to her what people _could_ do when up against walls, he must have some faint flicker of self-preservation left.

Her hand curled behind his neck and urged him closer. He willingly followed, getting the hint and touching his lips to hers, amazed at how simple things like this could almost entirely banish the presence of the templars from his mind. His arms wrapped around her body and brought her closer, cursing the armor that was once again between them. Then she drew away, briefly pressing her face onto the cold silverite of his armor before looking up at him again. “I am _warning_ you,” she repeated. “If you mention what happened to anyone else, what happened won’t continue to its inevitable conclusion. It’s too complicated between just us. To bring more attention to it... it would make it almost impossible.” The last few words tumbled out nearly strung together as one word.The confidence seemed to have disappeared from her eyes, replaced with an emotion he was tempted label as fear.

He wanted to believe that he couldn’t fathom what she would be afraid of, but he’d be lying to himself. There was plenty for both of them to fear, between their duties as Wardens, between their completely different statuses in the social strata of Ferelden, him being a prince, her being a Dalish elf. There was Velanna’s condemnation of what she saw between them, even when it wasn’t fully formed. Other Dalish elves might feel the same way and look down on her, and humans could do the same. “Are you ashamed?” he asked quietly.

Her back stiffened. He felt her muscles tense under his hands and her eyes snapped up to meet his. “No,” she said, an almost-growl marking her tone. “I am never ashamed of who I am. I am Dalish, a keeper of the lost lore, a walker of the lonely path, one of the last of the _Elvhenan._ Never will I submit. That means not being ashamed of who you are or what you do when you believe it’s right.” She poked an index finger into his chest. “You would do well to remember that, Malcolm Theirin.” After another savage glare, she turned and silently walked down the stairs, leaving him staring after her in confusion. Another misstep, it seemed. He sighed and dropped the back of his head onto the stone wall behind him, wondering if Líadan would ever be less prickly than she already was. Probably not. It was, as Zevran had once said, part of her charm.

With her departure from his line of sight, the seemingly endless complications waiting in other parts of the castle returned to his mind. Yes, he really preferred what’d been going on earlier to what he would have to face now. If the templars knew about his mother being an elf, he wouldn’t be able to refuse their request. He would want to, and every fiber of his body would insist that he tell them to take a flying leap, but he would have to cooperate with the Chantry at that point. Otherwise, it would put Ferelden in danger and it was part of his duty to keep its people safe. If that meant letting unlucky templars be killed by Morrigan, he’d have to accept that. But if the Divine, who was _Orlesian_ , knew about his heritage, what would stop her from using that information to further other purposes? Nothing at all. The prospect frightened him more than Morrigan having a child with the soul of an Old God. He trusted Morrigan, in some way, not to use the child to wreak havoc on Thedas if it could be helped. But he couldn’t trust the Divine not to use secret information about the Ferelden royal line to increase the power of the Chantry and Orlais. 

He fervently hoped it would only be the mage part, and that they could disprove that notion today. Though, he had no idea how it would be done and didn’t look forward to it. He suspected it would involve the Fade. Ever since their unwilling trip into the Fade at the Circle Tower during the Blight, he had _hated_ the Fade. He had been completely fooled by that sloth demon and entirely embarrassed that their entire party had witnessed his dream. It even made him thankful for the nightmares the Blight had given him, because they replaced the time he would have spent in the Fade. 

“Okay, it’s been ten minutes,” Fergus’ voice came up the stairs. “And Líadan already blew through here, looking really pissed, so I know it’s just you. Do I need to drag you down here?”

“No. Well, maybe. I don’t particularly want to meet with the templars.”

“So, you _are_ a mage?”

“You’re an arse, you know that?”

“Also, I brought you food. I stole it from some of the other Wardens before they could devour it. I think someone snarled at me when I did, and they might’ve tried to bite me, too.”

Malcolm’s stomach growled loudly, reminding him that he’d yet to eat that day, and as a Warden, a meal was not something to be skipped. He pushed himself off the wall and bounded down the stairs to where Fergus waited. He happily accepted the bread and cheese handed to him. “Maker bless you, Fergus.” Then he set to eating as they walked down the hallway.

“You realize that you _just_ called me an arse, right?”

He swallowed the mouthful of bread he’d been chewing. “If you’ve anything to drink, I’ll take it back, I promise.” Fergus wordlessly handed him a flask. Malcolm took it and drank thirstily. When he went to hand it back, Fergus waved at him to keep it. “All right, best brother ever,” Malcolm said. He tossed the last crust of bread down to Gunnar, who had loped over to his side as they crossed through an intersection.

“I can’t wait to tell the king,” said Fergus. His brief smile disappeared after they walked in silence for a few minutes. “Honestly, I can’t say that I blame you for wanting to avoid all this. From all the talking they’ve been doing—which has sounded suspiciously like yelling at times—it doesn’t sound like whatever you’re about to go through will be pleasant.”

“From what I’ve heard, almost everything a mage experiences isn’t pleasant, so I can’t imagine trying to prove you aren’t a mage being pleasant, either. It isn’t like they’re going to believe me when I say, ‘No, really, I’m not a mage!’ Make it a lot easier if they did, though.” A new fear tingled through his chest as they stepped closer to the main hall: what if he _was_ a mage? The chance was slim and ridiculously so, as other mages would have already known, since they could tell when another person was a mage. But he could be a mage with a magical ability so absurdly weak that it was undetectable until whatever test the templars and First Enchanter had could find it. That had happened to Líadan in a way, after all.

As it turned out, they didn’t really have a specific sort of test. The required glowering happened at the same time as the required introductions, though Malcolm already knew Knight-Commander Thierry. It seemed that he knew the other templars with him, as well. They, of course, remembered him, and fixed him with glares filled with disdain for his kind. Well, the kind that they thought he was, because they gave the Warden and Circle mages the very same glares. The sheer number of people in the room reminded Malcolm of the Landsmeet, complete with the ancient traditions and required shouting. The Orlesian templars stood clumped together and kept constant glares on the six mages and Malcolm. Greagoir looked incredibly uncomfortable, standing a little off from the other templars, being Fereldan and obviously not convinced that this so-called apostate was a mage at all. Irving stood and chatted with Wynne, who eventually pulled Fiona and Anders into the conversation, though Anders looked like he’d rather be spitting on Irving’s boots. Or the templars’ boots, as he did look quite conflicted.

The Wardens in attendance—which was every single Warden currently in Highever—had all worn armor, ready for battle. The only Wardens not in armor were Anders and Velanna, but they had worn robes that Malcolm knew had their best enchantments. They, too, expected some sort of combat. Knowing their warm and fuzzy history with the Chantry, it wasn’t unreasonable to expect that sort of thing to happen. Malcolm was no exception, having put on his dwarven heavy chainmail, strapped his sword and dagger to his hips, and wished he had a proper shield. But he hadn’t had time to visit Highever’s armory to fetch a proper shield, so he’d have to make do with what he had and hope there wouldn’t be any literal dragons. There were more than enough proverbial ones.

“So you don’t actually have a test that proves that someone isn’t a mage?” Malcolm asked Thierry, trying to comprehend that what the man had said was indeed fact. “Because if you don’t, that’s really stupid.” Behind the knight-commander, standing with Alistair and Fergus, Eamon put a hand over his face in despair. The disapproval didn’t bother Malcolm, however, as he really didn’t feel like catering to the Chantry at the moment. Or ever, really, but particularly right now as they insisted on accusing him of being something he very much wasn’t. Greagoir strode over to stand closer to them, apparently ready to weigh in with his opinion.

The side of Thierry’s mouth twitched in a sign of repressed exasperation, but he did nothing else to betray his true feelings. Instead, he patiently answered, “No, we do not. Normally, there isn’t an issue about proving that someone isn’t a mage, as they can do things like shoot lightning from their fingertips, set people on fire, or heal people without even touching them. We do get some recalcitrants who insist they are not mages, but other mages can tell if they have an affinity for the Fade or not.”

“Wouldn’t that be a sort-of test then?” Malcolm extended his arm towards the mages in the room. “We’ve six confirmed mages here already. All of them can tell you that I’m not a mage. Well, you might have to wait for Anders and Líadan to stop laughing at the question for them to give the answer, but they’ll still insist I’m not a mage.”

“Seriously,” said Anders, breaking off from his conversation with Wynne, “Malcolm isn’t a mage. Sometimes, I’m surprised he can even find the Fade in his dreams.”

Malcolm glared at Anders. “Now that’s just low. I can _dream_.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t. I’m just saying I’m surprised that you can.”

Greagoir sighed in a weary manner that reminded Malcolm of Eamon. He wondered if they exchanged notes on being exasperated with young people. Thierry shot a hesitant look at Greagoir, who offered the other templar nothing in return, illustrating his support of the Fereldans’ belief that Malcolm wasn’t a mage. Irritation twitched at Thierry’s mouth, replacing the exasperation, and he turned to Malcolm again. “Normally, the apostates we bring to the Circles are children. As children, their control over their magic isn’t very refined, so they cannot hide their ties to the Fade like an adult mage can. Apostates your age are generally executed. In fact, I cannot—”

“Do you really think you’ll be executing Malcolm?” asked Alistair.

“If we had wanted to kill the apostate, he would be dead already,” said one of the other templars, sounding entirely convinced that he could make that sort of thing happen. 

“Ha! Far more likely that you’d be dead yourself,” said Oghren. “Either by his hand or the hand of one of the other Wardens. We tend to be a protective bunch with the stones to match.”

The young templar went to argue with the dwarf, but Thierry held up a hand, commanding the younger man to be silent. Once he confirmed that the lad would hold his tongue, Thierry turned back to Malcolm. “Execution is not part of the plan for you as far as I know. I’m not sure if it’s because you’re a Grey Warden or because you are a prince, but you are not to be killed as any other apostate your age would be. Our orders are to bring you to Orlais for investigation.”

“That isn’t going to happen,” said Malcolm.

“You are going, apostate, whether you like it or not,” said the young templar who’d spoken up before. His hand dropped to the hilt of the Sword of Mercy at his hip. As soon as his fingers brushed against the sword, every Warden in the room fell into a defensive stance, hands ready to draw their own weapons, be they blades or magic.

Sitting at Malcolm’s side, Gunnar growled low in his throat.

“Ser Benoit, I would advise you to keep your silence and stay your blade,” Thierry said after a mild look of alarm about the room. “Lest you find yourself short a head.” His eyes flicked down to look at the growling dog, eyes widening slightly at seeing hackles raised. “Or perhaps even lose your throat.”

“The loss of his head might be an improvement to his intelligence,” Nathaniel said, twirling an arrow between his nimble fingers. Oghren grunted his agreement while Anders, Velanna, and Líadan openly laughed. 

The young templar’s mouth shut and he slowly withdrew his hand from his weapon, glaring at Thierry with burning resentment all the while. Malcolm wondered if knight-commanders were the only templars with any sort of sense to them whatsoever. He resisted smirking at Benoit, as he was fairly certain it would send the templar hurtling over the edge of reason and make him attack. While it could be somewhat fun, the entire point to not cooperating with the Chantry over Morrigan was to keep the oft-witless templars alive. Goading them into suicide by Grey Warden hardly seemed appropriate given the basis of his protest. “I’m not going to Orlais,” he said to Thierry. “I believe we’ve made that much clear. I am, however, willing to prove to you that I’m not a mage if such a way can be found. I take it that the word of these mages alone would not convince you?”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

“Can’t templars sense magic in mages?” Eamon asked, walking over with Alistair and Fergus. “I’ve gotten that impression from what templars have previously said.”

“Normally, we can. But the Divine believes that Malcolm is skilled enough a mage to hide his connection to the Fade.”

Alistair rolled his eyes a bit at that answer. “How convenient.” Then he looked over at Greagoir. “What about you, Knight-Commander? Do you believe Malcolm is a mage?”

“Not any more than I would believe the mabari a mage,” Greagoir replied. 

“I knew there was a reason I liked you,” said Fergus, who then mumbled something about wondering if mabaris were capable of being mages, because if any dogs could be, it would be a mabari. 

Gunnar barked happily in reply, informing Fergus that yes, they could if they really wanted.

Malcolm suppressed a smile as he looked at Thierry. “Will you accept his assessment?” 

“Ah... no. Unfortunately not.” Thierry’s plate armor clanked as he shifted from foot to foot. “You see, I don’t think I can blindly accept any assessment from a Fereldan, as they may be unduly influenced by your family’s name.”

“That is a very Orlesian thing to say,” said Eamon.

Thierry turned to face the chancellor. “Be that as it may, that’s the way it is. Either we will have to figure out a way to irrefutably prove that Malcolm is not a mage, or he will have to return with us to Orlais.”

“There’s the Harrowing,” said Benoit.

Greagoir shot the young templar a dark look, but Thierry stroked at his mustache as if he were considering it. “Perhaps.”

“The Harrowing is for trained apprentices,” said Wynne, straightening to her full height as she went into teacher mode. “It isn’t a ritual to be done with an apostate, and certainly not a ritual to be done with a non-mage like Malcolm.”

Thierry glanced over at her, but kept stroking at his mustache. “But if he isn’t a mage, it shouldn’t have an effect on him.”

“We can’t know that,” said Fiona. “If—”

“I don’t think we should be discussing the intricacies of the Harrowing with outsiders.” Thierry waved his hand about the room to illustrate exactly how many non-Circle and non-Templar people were present. “Perhaps we should dismiss those who do not know.”

“The Grey Wardens are no strangers to secrets, Knight-Commander,” Riordan said quietly, the Orlesian cadence in his voice causing Thierry to jump a little. “My people can keep your secrets. Most likely, they already know them.”

Thierry shot a questioning look at Alistair. The king shrugged, and then smiled pleasantly at the templar. “Sorry. Can’t tell you anything. Warden secrets. You know how it is.”

“But there are non-Wardens to consider as well,” Thierry said, indicating Eamon and Fergus. 

Alistair sighed. “I suppose you’re right on that account.” He glanced between the teyrn and the arl. “If you two gentlemen could please wait outside while we sort this out? Someone will let you know what the decision will be. And don’t worry, no one is taking him anywhere, I’ll see to that personally.”

Eamon seemed to accept the answer, striding for the exit right away, but Fergus was more reluctant. He took one step before giving Malcolm a cautious look, and then frowning at Alistair. The king gave Fergus another nod, one that Fergus accepted as a guarantee of Malcolm’s safety, and then left the hall. 

Fiona, arms crossed over her chainmail hauberk, had yet to stop glaring at the Orlesian Knight-Commander. Malcolm felt some relief at that, since she wasn’t glaring at him for the time being. He couldn’t imagine it being easy for her at all, considering she must feel guilty that the reason these men believed Malcolm was a mage was because he was her son, even if they didn’t know she specifically was his natural mother. She couldn’t speak out, either, he realized. She would have to toe whatever line the other mages did so as not to draw suspicion. It was a wonder she didn’t lose her mind at trying to hold her temper. “May I continue now, Knight-Commander?” Fiona asked. “Or have you any other orders to give?”

The templar balked a little at the ferocity of Fiona’s gaze and Malcolm felt a small swell of pride in seeing that. Líadan freely grinned, as did Anders, while Wynne looked as if she was holding back a sharp retort toward the templar. Irving seemed merely weary. Malcolm couldn’t blame him. “No, go ahead, Warden,” Thierry said.

“If a non-mage undergoes the ritual, he could still be propelled into the Fade and unable to manipulate it. He would be defenseless,” she said.

“The lyrium is what sustains the spell, is it not?” asked Thierry. “If he isn’t a mage, the spell would wear out quickly and he would merely wake up.”

“Why are we worried about him being defenseless in the Beyond? Your Fade?” Líadan asked. 

After another scowl sent in Thierry’s direction, Fiona leaned over and said something quietly to the Dalish elf. Líadan went rigid as Fiona spoke, and Malcolm could hear her magic crackling near her fingers from where he stood on the other side of the room. “You shemlen do _what_ to your mages?” she yelled at the Orlesian Knight-Commander. “You know, I thought the whole locking them up in a prison masquerading as a simple tower was bad, but I clearly had no idea how barbaric you really are. You seriously put _demons_ in your _apprentices_ to see if they can withstand the temptation?”

“It is necessary,” Thierry said evenly, though his face had almost entirely drained of color. “We have to know if a person with that kind of power can resist what a demon might offer them in the Fade. If they cannot, it is better to be rid of them early, before they become even more skilled.”

“Be rid of them?” Velanna repeated.

“He means kill them,” said Anders. “And not just if they can’t resist the demon’s deal and turn into an abomination. If you take too long in the Fade, they’ll kill you anyway, just in case.”

“ _Ar tu na’lin emma mi la na’din ashin_ , _shemlen,_ ” Líadan said in a dangerously quiet tone.

To his right, Malcolm could see Benoit gathering up the energy for a smite, having caught the threat held within Líadan’s voice. “Ser Templar, smite that Grey Warden and I will run you through,” Malcolm said.

Benoit rolled his eyes. “I’m not afraid of you and I’m certainly not afraid of that little knife-ear.”

“Oh, Maker’s mercy,” said Thierry. 

Malcolm, knowing Líadan as he did, felt no compulsion to bother trying to do the templar bodily harm. Líadan would only get angry with him for not allowing her to do it. Though his temper raged inside his chest, he stood still, presenting a calm front.

Not so much for Líadan, as it seemed the knight-commander had expected. “ _Ma emma harel, dashinlen!_ ” Her forward progress towards the templar was halted by Fiona’s hand clamping on to her arm. “Let me go,” the younger elf said, briefly turning her glare on Fiona.

“Killing that templar might feel good right now, but it will accomplish nothing in the end,” Fiona told her. “It will not help, I promise you.”

“He’s practically begging for it,” Velanna pointed out. 

Riordan nodded. “You know, I can’t really argue with her assessment, Thierry. Your templar just insulted one of my Wardens. I’m tempted to allow her to take it out on him.” He moved his gaze from the knight-commander to Benoit. “And before you get cocky, Ser Templar, the woman you insulted doesn’t need magic to cut you to down to size. She’s also got brother and sister Wardens who will add in their own complaints against your person for what you said. Warden Líadan is right. You _should_ fear her and you should fear every Grey Warden you ever come across. A Warden’s ability to fight isn’t a mere legend. Perhaps it’s time you learned that.”

Finally, young Benoit started to show a tiny bit of fear in his eyes, his glance edging slowly away from Riordan to peek at Líadan, who was held back only half-heartedly by another elven woman. And near them stood the other Wardens, all of them glaring, some idly spinning blades in their hands, others letting magic spark from their fingertips. It slowly seemed to dawn on the youthful, ignorant templar that if he were to act out against the Dalish elf he seemed to despise, he wouldn’t leave the room alive. Benoit took a deep breath and said to Líadan, “I apologize, Ser Warden, for what I said.”

Líadan muttered something rapidly and vehemently in Elvish under her breath.

“No, you can’t still kill him,” said Fiona.

“Can I?” asked Oghren. At some point he’d retrieved the battleaxe from his back, and he now held it in his hands, one hand almost reverently stroking its handle.

Fiona frowned at him, but it wasn’t entirely convincing, at least to the people who knew her. “Perhaps with your ale.”

Oghren let the head of the axe rest on the floor and tugged at his beard. “Not a bad idea.”

Wynne’s frown deepened. “It would be a waste of a fine ale.” She exchanged a silent look with Fiona, and then turned to Thierry. “And attempting a Harrowing on a non-mage would be a waste of a fine young man, Knight-Commander.”

“It would take care of a problem apostate,” said Benoit.

Líadan wrenched her forearm out of Fiona’s slackened hand. “That’s it, I’m going to kill him.”

“No, that would be much too good for him, I think,” Oghren said. “How about we just toss him in the Deep Roads and see how he does?”

Riordan lifted an eyebrow and looked in the dwarf’s direction. “You know, I rather like that idea.”

“Ser Benoit, have you a death wish?” Thierry asked the young templar. “The next time you speak out of turn, I will turn you over to the Grey Wardens to do as they wish. I’m fairly certain you haven’t noticed, but we are trying to _avoid_ an international incident. So kindly do me a favor and _shut up_ , or in the name of Andraste, I will throw you into the Deep Roads myself.”

Alistair stepped a little closer to Malcolm. “You know, I’m starting to think we misjudged that Knight-Commander Thierry guy at first. He doesn’t sound so bad now.”

Malcolm breathed in, and then released a settling breath. “He’s still trying to put me through a Harrowing. And I’m _not a mage_.” He looked away from Alistair and towards where the mages stood in a cluster. He didn’t fail to notice that each of the Circle mages, all Harrowed, looked particularly troubled at the turn of events. Fiona’s hand had taken Líadan’s, and Malcolm wasn’t sure if Fiona held on to the younger elf purely to keep Líadan from killing the outspoken templar, or to keep herself from doing something to put a stop to what she saw as absolute stupidity. Irving’s fingers combed through his long beard and he exchanged more than a few uneasy glances with Wynne. Even Anders, the youngest of the Harrowed mages by far, seemed overly nervous at the idea. Malcolm himself wasn’t thrilled at the notion of being forced into the Fade with a demon ready to possess his body, mage or not. He couldn’t believe they did that to apprentices of the Circle. To _children_. No wonder Alistair hadn’t wanted to take his vows to become a full templar. Malcolm knew he would’ve run screaming from the Chantry grounds rather than do that and was surprised that Alistair never had. Maybe he would have if Duncan hadn’t intervened.

“I know,” said Alistair. “I know you’re not. This might be the only way, though. If you come out of it, it will irrefutably prove that you aren’t a mage.”

Anders scowled. “ _If_ he comes out of it. That’s the sticking point, there. There are apprentices who choose to go through the Rite of Tranquility rather than go through the Harrowing for a reason.”

“Rite of Tranquility?” asked Velanna. “Is this another shemlen barbarism?”

“Yes,” Fiona immediately answered. “They cut you off from the Fade permanently. You don’t dream. You no longer have emotions. You live and breathe, but you are no longer alive.”

Líadan looked as if she might lose her breakfast. She stared at Knight-Commander Thierry like he was a new kind of horrible monster. Which, to her, he probably was after learning something like that. She mumbled something under her breath and Fiona squeezed her hand once before letting it go.

“Better to die over living like that,” said Velanna, “because you would already be dead, only you wouldn’t know it.”

Knight-Commander Greagoir sighed. “We haven’t the luxury of a theological argument right now. What needs to be decided is how we can prove that Prince Malcolm is not a mage so that we can get on with our lives without any undue Orlesian influence. If anyone has a better idea than a version of the Harrowing, I would love to hear it. If not, it seems this is the only way the Orlesian Chantry will leave Ferelden without a prince in their custody.”

No one spoke up. The shuffling of feet against the stones of the floor filled the hall, along with the whispers of cloth as people shifted their weight in trying to find a comfortable position. But there wasn’t one to be had, not in standing and not within their minds. 

“Then we are left with the Harrowing,” Thierry said after a few interminable minutes had passed. He looked between First Enchanter Irving, King Alistair, Warden Commander Riordan, and Knight-Commander Greagoir. Each man gave him a quick, reluctant nod, eyes closing briefly for each of them, as if they were agreeing to an execution. A shiver ran up Malcolm’s spine at seeing the expressions on their faces, as if they were readying themselves to face a death. He didn’t much like that, as it would be _his_. Thierry’s gaze settled on Irving. “Have we lyrium enough to conduct the ritual?”

“I believe we do, if we can pool with what the Wardens may have.”

“The Grey Wardens will share their resources,” said Riordan.

Thierry nodded. “And mages? We’ve six, yes?”

“Only four Harrowed mages,” Irving replied. “I think it would be best if we used only the Harrowed mages, as they are familiar with the ways of the Circle.”

“I wouldn’t help with this barbarism anyway,” said Líadan, her glare sweeping over every person in the room. “None of you should.” She stopped when she got to Fiona. “Especially you.” Then she turned and walked out the same doors that Fergus and Eamon had departed through. Velanna followed right behind her after casting a scathing look of her own at the humans. 

Gunnar huffed, looking between Malcolm and the door. “Go ahead,” Malcolm told his mabari. The dog barked once, and then trotted for the door, Anders kindly opening it for him and shutting it once the dog had exited. 

“I’m relieved to see that beast go,” said Ser Benoit. “More than a bit scary, that one. Are those dogs as smart as they say?”

“He’d rip out your throat, given the chance,” Alistair said mildly. “Mostly because you’re an idiot and not because you’ve insulted and threatened people he cares about.”

Before Ser Benoit could get himself into further trouble, Thierry said, “I’ll need the Harrowed mages and the templars to stay so that we can prepare the ritual. Everyone else, you must go. It will take some time, but stay nearby. Prince Malcolm, I will send a templar to fetch you when the ritual is ready.”

Riordan gave the templar a solemn nod, and then led Nathaniel and Oghren out of the hall. Malcolm started after them, feeling like he was in a daze, then stopped when he noticed that Alistair hadn’t followed. When he turned, he saw that his brother hadn’t moved at all.

“I’m staying,” Alistair told Thierry after nodding at Malcolm. “Don’t try to argue with me, either. I was trained as templar before I became a Grey Warden. This is my brother we’re talking about here, and I’m not going to let this happen without me being here for him. So I’ll be here for everything, from preparation until the very end.”

“It’s the ‘very end’ part that I really don’t like,” Anders said quietly.

Fiona touched Malcolm’s hand once as he opened the door. “None of us do,” she said.

Once outside, he discovered he couldn’t go much further. He found a bench, sat on it, and waited. Eamon and Fergus stopped by and discussed what would happen, but they were as clueless as he was as to what would really be happening. Eamon scowled while Fergus muttered things that sounded much like he wanted a certain Grand Cleric’s head on a plate, along with the Divine’s, but Malcolm couldn’t be entirely certain if that was the case. Then they were gone as well, off to do whatever they needed to while the waiting continued. He imagined they had plenty of it to do, since there was no telling how long the Harrowing itself would take. He wondered if this little ritual would end up killing him, and then he realized that he was afraid. Strange, definitely strange for someone already living under a thirty-year death sentence to be afraid of dying. But thirty years was far longer than a few hours, and to someone who was just short twenty-one, thirty years was a very long time. 

He leaned forward, propped his elbows on his knees, cupped his chin in his hands, and continued to wait. Gunnar appeared, snuffling and unsure, casting uneasy looks towards the main hall as the unmistakable aura of magic formed at the doors. Líadan was along soon after the mabari settled in, dropping next to Malcolm on the wooden bench while surrounded by an air of frustration and worry. “I don’t like this,” she said.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed, what with all the yelling you did.”

She leaned heavily into his shoulder with her own, a push to tell him to stop with the teasing, she was trying to be serious. But when he returned to his upright state, she remained leaning into him, maintaining the contact even though any number of Wardens or servants or Maker forbid, Eamon, could happen onto them. “It’s horrific. I’m horrified. Truly horrified that your people would do this to anyone, not just a mage. _Anyone_.”

“I didn’t know. Most people don’t know. I’m not disagreeing with you. I just... it doesn’t seem like there’s another way that won’t cause a lot more problems.” He sighed and dropped his hands to his lap, and took off his gauntlets to give his fingers something to fidget with. “It’s that whole duty thing again. If I don’t cooperate, bad things might happen to Ferelden.”

“If you _do_ cooperate, bad things will happen to _you_. I saw the looks on their faces, on the mages who’ve been through this barbaric ritual of yours. It seems like unpleasant will be the best way it go for you.”

He didn’t want to think about it any longer, because the more he thought about it, the more frightening it got. Plus, he was beginning to understand why some apprentices chose to undergo the Rite of Tranquility rather than face whatever this test would be. “What did you say to that templar, anyway?”

“Told him that if he killed you, I’d see his blood on my blade.”

He snorted, unable to stop the half-smile that quirked his lips afterward. “You do realize that there were a few people in that room that could speak Elvish, right?”

“Yes. And if you’ll recall, not a single one of them objected.” She reached out and stopped his hand as it fidgeted, threading her fingers through his. “You could leave, right now,” she said, speaking even more quietly than before. “Wardens in other countries would take you in. Or you could do that whole pirate thing you mentioned.” Then she sighed, pressed his hands between both of hers, and then let go. “But you won’t even consider it, because you’ll stay. That’s who you are.” Then her hands were tugging her gauntlets back on, armor returning to face the world once again. “Even though you could die. Anyone can see it on their faces, the ones who’ve gone through this before. They think you might die.”

“Being a Grey Warden doesn’t exactly mean living the safest life.”

“It doesn’t mean you go on your Calling early.” She pulled away from him, just far enough to form a small gap between their bodies, and leaned against the wall behind them. 

They were racing backwards, he realized, erasing all the progress they’d made in the past week. And there was nothing he could do to stop it, just as there was nothing he could do to get out of this ritual he would soon face. He could run away, but that would go against everything that made him who he was. “Whatever you might be thinking, I don’t _want_ to die. You want to hear how I feel? I’m scared. I’m scared out of my mind. More scared than I was facing the archdemon, because I have no idea what I’m facing in there. At least with the archdemon, I knew what it was. This? I have no idea, other than it’s some sort of demon in the Fade and I sodding _hate_ the Fade. But I have to do it to keep people safe, people I’m supposedly responsible for. If it means I die in the process then there’s nothing I can do.” He paused and looked sidelong at her, staying silent long enough for her meet his look. “You would do the same if your clan required you to. I know you would. This is like that. It’s _that_ kind of obligation. I can’t walk away from it, even to save my own life, because walking away could put them in far more danger than staying.”

“So you won’t leave?” Her eyes darted downward, unable to hold his look any longer.

He was fairly certain they weren’t talking about the Harrowing anymore. “No, I won’t.”

The doors to the main hall opened and Knight-Commander Greagoir stuck his head out. “Prince Malcolm? We’re ready for you.”

Malcolm rose his feet, but Líadan stayed on the bench. Her fingertips touched his as he stepped away. She said, “Dying counts as leaving, too. Just so you know.” Then she was on her feet and striding quickly down the corridor.

Gunnar ran in a tight circle around Malcolm and he put a calming hand on the mabari’s back. “You can’t come with me,” he said to the dog. “Go stay with her. Alistair is with me in there. Fiona, too. I’ll be okay, but she’ll need you. Now go.” The mabari barked once, and then tore off in the direction the elf had gone. Then Malcolm removed the sheathed sword from his belt, placed it on the bench with his gauntlets, and faced the templar. “All set.”

Greagoir nodded once and led Malcolm inside the hall. As soon as the doors shut behind them, doors now flanked by two Orlesian templars who had again donned their helms, Knight-Commander Thierry started to recite a verse from the Chant. Malcolm recognized it—it was the one about magic existing to serve man and not rule over him. Then Thierry deviated from the Chant and said, “Thus spoke the prophet Andraste as she cast down the Tevinter Imperium, ruled by mages who had brought the world to the edge of ruin. Your magic is a gift—”

“I don’t _have_ magic. That’s what we’re trying to prove here,” Malcolm said. 

“They’re the words we have always spoken at Harrowings,” Greagoir said quietly. “Just... just let him run through it like he knows it. It will make it more official.”

When Malcolm didn’t say anything more, Thierry continued, “It’s also a curse, for demons of the Fade are drawn to you, and seek to use you as a gateway into this world. This is why the Harrowing exists. The ritual sends you into the Fade, and there you will face a demon, armed with only your will.”

“Will that he doesn’t _have_ ,” Alistair said, softly enough that only Malcolm and Fiona heard, each of them deepening their frowns at the remark. Anders narrowed his eyes at them, annoyed at being left out, but said nothing.

“The Harrowing is a secret out of necessity,” said Irving, cutting off what other comments Alistair might have made. “Every mage must go through this trial by fire.” The First Enchanter continued his little speech, but Malcolm wasn’t paying that much attention to it. He didn’t see the necessity of the ritual _at all_. Morrigan had never gone through it and he was damn sure she would never fall to a demon’s temptation. The same with Líadan and Velanna and other Dalish mages. After he’d seen the havoc that’d been wreaked in the Circle Tower during the Blight, and that’d been with _Harrowed_ mages, he didn’t think this ritual needed to exist, as it guarded against nothing. “Remember that the Fade is a realm of dreams. The spirits may rule it, but your own will is real,” Irving finished.

Between Knight-Commander Thierry and First Enchanter Irving, Malcolm noticed a pedestal they must’ve brought in from the small chantry in the castle. On the pedestal was a bowl filled with a viscous blue liquid he recognized as lyrium. Very potent lyrium, at that, as the sharp tang hit his nostrils. Greagoir had led Malcolm up to the pedestal and the two of them stood directly in front of it. 

“Place your hand in the lyrium and the ritual will begin,” said Thierry.

Malcolm forced down the fear that rose in his throat. Then he reached out with his hand and plunged it into the blue, tepid pool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish Translations:
> 
> -Líadan: “Ar tu na’lin emma mi la na’din ashin.”  
> “I will see your blood on my blade if you kill him.”
> 
> -Líadan: “Ma emma harel, dashinlen.”  
> “You should fear me, little man-child.”


	47. Chapter 47

**Chapter 47**

“The study of the Fade is as old as humankind. For so long as men have dreamed, we have walked its twisting paths, sometimes catching a glimpse of the city at its heart. Always as close as our own thoughts, but impossibly separated from our world.

The Tevinter Imperium once spent vast fortunes of gold, lyrium, and human slaves in an effort to map the terrain of the Fade, an ultimately futile endeavor. Although portions of it belong to powerful spirits, all of the Fade is in constant flux. The Imperium succeeded in finding the disparate and ever-shifting realms of a dozen demon lords, as well as cataloging a few hundred types of spirits, before they were forced to abandon the project.

The relationship of dreamers to the Fade is complex. Even when entering the Fade through the use of lyrium, mortals are not able to control or affect it. The spirits who dwell there, however, can, and as the Chantry teaches us, the grew flaw of the spirits is that they have neither imagination or ambition. They create what they see through their sleeping visitors, building elaborate copies of our cities, people, and events, which, like the reflections in a mirror, ultimately lack context or life of their own. Even the most powerful demons merely plagiarize the worst thoughts and fears of mortals, and build their realms with no other ambition than to taste life.”

—from _Tranquility and the Role of the Fade in Human Culture_ by First Enchanter Josephus

**Alistair**

As soon as the doors closed behind Malcolm’s exit, Alistair strode over to Ser Benoit and punched him in the jaw. The young templar stumbled back, hands clutching at his face, eyes wide in shock that a king would assault him without warning. Alistair advanced on him as the templar spluttered, and his expression dared him to try and retaliate. “That was for what you said in front of everyone. While everyone else had some sort of compulsion to refrain from hitting you, I decided I didn’t. You are the kind of templar that gives other templars a horrible reputation among the population. You’re the kind of templar who will end up killing an innocent out of blindness and probably do it gladly.”

Ser Benoit finally started to defend himself. “But, I—”

“Shut up.” Alistair hauled the smaller man to his feet. When Benoit opened his mouth again, Alistair cut him off. “No, seriously. Shut. Up. Or I will hit you again, and I honestly wouldn’t mind doing it, so don’t tempt me. The only reason I’m allowing you to stay here is because if I make you go outside, I’m not sure that Oghren or Líadan will hold back like I am.”

“Far be it from you to exercise your restraint, your Majesty,” Wynne said dryly.

“You were holding _back_?” asked Benoit.

“Considering you’re still conscious, I would say so,” said Anders. “You seemed to have forgotten that Ferelden’s king also happens to be a Grey Warden. And don’t think that any of us mages are going to heal that jaw, either, templar.” He glanced over at the First Enchanter. “Well, Irving might.”

Irving lifted both his eyebrows. “Not I.” Then he turned to Thierry and Greagoir, paying no mind to the plight of Ser Benoit. “We will need a basin, preferably a large one made of stone, if possible. We will also need some sort of pedestal or lectern on which to place the basin. And lyrium, of course.”

“I can go fetch what we have,” said Anders. Once Irving gave him a nod of approval, he departed out the previously unused side doors, opposite to where everyone else had exited.

Alistair let go of Benoit’s armor, giving him a final push backwards before turning to the two knight-commanders and Irving. “The kitchens might have a proper bowl, or we could use a washstand. There has to be a lectern or some sort of decorative pedestal in the chantry, I’m sure.”

Thierry pointed at two of the younger templars and they went scurrying out the same exit Anders had taken. Then the knight-commander looked at Irving. “What do you need us to do?”

“Stand aside and wait,” Irving replied. “Have your other templars guard the doors, just in case someone forgets and tries to come in.” Then he went over to one of the tables pushed against a wall, pulled various herbs and other components out of a large pouch at his belt, and set to work. After a moment of foot-tapping uncertainty, Wynne joined him. Fiona remained standing near the main doors, arms still folded over her chest. Without remembering having chosen to do so, Alistair found himself soon standing next to her, wondering if he should say something. Then he realized that he couldn’t, and Fiona not helping with concocting the potion was deviating from the normal actions of the other mages far enough as it was. 

“Did you ever have to witness a Harrowing?” Fiona suddenly asked, her eyes staying focused on some far part of the wall across the room.

Alistair resisted the urge to shift nervously from foot to foot. “I was only present during one. That was all I needed, too. I don’t know how anyone could get through that. The girl they tested, she wasn’t more than a child. I think she was even younger than I was at the time. They put a demon inside her, or however it works to get the apprentice to interact with the demon, to see if she could resist. And she couldn’t.” He crossed his arms, gripping tightly at his elbows. “We had to... end it quickly. I have to say I didn’t have much interest in being a templar after that. The only things I was thankful for was that I didn’t have to deliver the blow and that it ended as cleanly as it could for that girl.” He forced himself to relax and let his arms hang at his sides. What he really wanted to do was pace. No, not that. If he really got into true wants for the moment, he wanted to put an end to this ridiculous farce without subjecting anyone else to any further pain. 

“We, the mages, I mean, will have to summon a demon to a certain section of the Fade,” said Fiona. “We... we have to lure it with a promise that a living body will be waiting for it when it arrives. It won’t just be one, as others always appear. But it’s the pride demon that always ends up controlling that portion of the Fade.”

“You actually summon demons?”

“I’ve never personally summoned demons, no. I never took part in a Harrowing other than my own. Only First Enchanters know the entire thing, though once you become a full enchanter, you’re taught some of how the Harrowing works. I had just been taught a little before I was recruited into the Wardens. I had assumed that I would never have anything to do with a Harrowing ever again.”

“So had I.”

“It seems we were both wrong.”

They stood in silence for a time. Anders came back to the hall, carrying a load of lyrium potions and more herbal components, and joined the other mages at the table. He cast a few glances Fiona’s way, but she refused to hold his looks, or the looks Wynne and Irving also gave her. Alistair mulled over what he’d learned in the Chantry about demons, trying to figure out exactly what sort of danger Malcolm would be in for the ritual. He wasn’t a mage, so that meant he couldn’t become an abomination. Thing was, demons could still possess a regular person. They didn’t _have_ to be a mage. Mages were just preferable because they had powers drawn from the Fade, which in turn made them more easily accessible to demons, and would give demons more power once they possessed the mage’s body. “He could still be possessed.”

“I know,” Fiona replied. “He could be possessed by the very demon we summon.”

Alistair could tell by the way the elf said ‘we’ that she wanted to say ‘I’ and he felt guilty about it, that she would have to actively participate in this mess. “You... you don’t _have_ to do this, do you?” he asked as cautiously as he could, even though he knew what the final answer would be.

“Yes, I do. They need as many mages as they can to shape the chosen section of the Fade, set up the ritual, and summon the demon. Irving, as a First Enchanter, knows the intricacies, but he will need all of our help. If it would’ve been acceptable to all sides, we would have had Velanna and Líadan help as well.”

“Yeah, somehow I don’t think that would’ve happened. Not without a beating first, a gift from Líadan to Ser ‘Let’s See How Much I Can Insult the Dalish Before They Kill Me’ over there. You know, I don’t think anyone would’ve really _minded_ had you let her at him. I’m just saying.”

“Like I said, it wouldn’t have solved anything.”

“It would have been entertaining.”

Fiona didn’t say anything, but her lips quirked upward briefly before she resumed the seriousness from before. It seemed that his sense of humor wasn’t just from Maric’s side after all. He wondered what really brought his parents together, and if he’d ever gather up courage enough to ask. Not now, of course. And if something bad happened, not for quite some time. He pressed his lips into a straight line, doing his best not to frown. The side doors opened again, admitting two templars carrying a pedestal with a stone basin perched precariously on the top. As the templars set up the pedestal and the basin in the middle of the room, Wynne motioned for Fiona to join the mages. “Excuse me,” she said to Alistair, and then moved to help the others.

He was impressed at how well she was holding up, basically giving nothing away unless someone was specifically looking for it. He knew that Wynne knew who Fiona really was, and the older woman was probably doing what she could to alleviate the emotional pressure that was most likely building within the elf. In the end, though, she had to do what the other mages did, or risk alerting the Orlesian templars that there was more going on under the surface than they ever would’ve suspected. The mages finished the potion in short measure, the sweet, yet sharp smell of lyrium filling the room when they poured it in into the basin. Then they asked the templars to stand further away while Irving outlined a summoning circle on the floor. Words were exchanged between the mages, Irving rapidly explaining something, Fiona and Anders frowning, Wynne looking troubled, but supporting the First Enchanter. 

Irving informed the templars that he and Wynne would be going into the Fade to set up that portion of the ritual, while Fiona and Anders would remain on this side of the Veil maintaining another part of the setup spell. Greagoir didn’t look happy about it, but he agreed grudgingly, while Thierry seemed like he didn’t care one way or the other, as long as it was done. Under the watchful and curious—at least on Alistair’s part—eyes of the templars, the mages started their incantations. Soon enough, Wynne’s and Irving’s bodies were unconscious on the floor, both of the knight-commanders standing nearby in case something went wrong. It didn’t take them as long as Alistair had assumed it would before Wynne was waking up. Then Anders and Fiona were joining the other two mages to summon the demon, or so Greagoir explained when Alistair asked him quietly what was happening. With all four of the mages in the Fade, Thierry summoned another templar over, just in case something went wrong this early in the process, before the actual Harrowing even started.

Nothing happened, though, and the mages awakened without fanfare. “It is ready,” Irving said to Thierry as he slowly rose to his feet. “Fetch the boy.”

Alistair wasn’t sure that they could exactly claim Malcolm as a boy any longer, but considering Irving’s age, he supposed almost anyone could be a child to him. Greagoir’s mouth twitched like he might’ve objected to the phrasing, and then he shrugged slightly and headed for the door. Irving and Thierry took up positions on either side of the pedestal holding the basin of lyrium and whatever else was in the mixture. The other templars had been sent to guard the doors again. Alistair looked over at the First Enchanter, the first fledgling glimmer of fear forming in his throat. Then he said, “Irving. If anything goes... if it doesn’t go well, I want to be the one to have to do it. Not anyone else.”

Irving looked pained. “King Alistair, I’m sure that one of the other templars would—”

“He’s my _brother_ ,” Alistair said. “If anyone has to do this for him, it should be me.”

“If the apostate fails, we templars will have to perform our duty. He will die,” Ser Benoit said from his place near the far doors.

Alistair turned and glared at him. “You know, I think you’ll be taking a trip to the Deep Roads very soon, templar. You’re fortunate that I don’t have time to take care of that at the moment or you’d be saying hello to some nice darkspawn right about now.” 

Benoit seemed appropriately frightened as his skin paled and his fingers plied nervously at the helm in his hands. “I’m sorry, your Majesty.”

“ _I_ will do my duty if it calls for it. No one else.” Alistair gave the templar another hard look before turning back to Irving to confirm his declaration.

The First Enchanter sighed, and then nodded. “Though I would hope it doesn’t come to that. This shouldn’t have an effect on him, as he is not a mage. At most, it might put him to sleep for a short time, but nothing more.”

Alistair couldn’t be entirely sure, but he wasn’t certain that Irving was completely convinced of what he’d just said. Irving had hesitated, a moment of internal conflict briefly showing behind his eyes before it was suppressed. Obviously, Irving was holding something back, and Alistair suspected that whatever it was, none of the other mages knew. Perhaps the knight-commanders did, but not the mages. If whatever Irving’s conflict was came to be, it didn’t seem like it would go over well with the other enchanters, which was probably why he kept it to himself. Most likely, he hoped it wouldn’t come to pass and no one would be the wiser. Alistair didn’t believe they would have that sort of luck on their side.

Greagoir opened the door wide enough to poke his head through. Through the gap, Alistair caught the flash of Líadan’s auburn hair as she walked down the hallway beyond. There was the sound of Gunnar’s bark, and then the dark form of the mabari tearing after the retreating elf. Then Greagoir opened the door further, leading Malcolm inside the main hall. Thierry launched into the words of the ritual as soon as the helmed templars—Alistair hadn’t even seen them put their helms back on—shut the doors behind Malcolm and the knight-commander.

When Malcolm interrupted Thierry to voice an objection about being assumed to have magic, Alistair had to draw on all the political training he’d received in the past months to keep a straight face. He noticed the flicker of amusement pass through Anders’ eyes, and not even Wynne summoned a frown. Alistair couldn’t keep his mouth shut when Thierry mentioned the whole ‘the mage having the will to do battle with demons’ part because they all knew perfectly well that Malcolm didn’t _have_ that particular ability. 

Irving jumped in before Alistair could continue and verbally pushed the ritual forward. Except that his words of wisdom for navigating the Fade only applied to mages and not people like Malcolm. Alistair managed to remain silent, holding on to the hope that the ritual simply wouldn’t work from the outset. Then Thierry called on Malcolm to start the physical Harrowing by placing his hand in the lyrium mixture, which was what would propel him into the Fade. When Malcolm submerged his hand in the pool, for a moment, nothing happened. Alistair felt a small part of him start to rejoice, that they would all end up standing there looking stupid as they waited for the spell to work on someone it wouldn’t work on. 

It wasn’t to be.

Another moment after Alistair’s hope rose, Malcolm dropped towards the floor, out cold. Anders and Fiona managed to react quickly enough to catch him so he didn’t hit his head on the stone underfoot. 

“The first part worked,” said Thierry. “Perhaps he is a mage, then, though you all deny it.” He glanced at Alistair. “You need to draw your sword and be ready.”

“He’s _asleep_ ,” said Anders. “There’s no need to bare any blades. It’s not the lucid dreaming that mages experience when we go to the Fade.” He frowned and looked over at Irving. “So it _was_ a sleeping draught you put in there, wasn’t it? You knew it would knock him out and into the Fade whether he was a mage or not.”

Irving had the decency to look slightly guilty. “It’s a part of the potion. I could hardly experiment with it at a time like this. Not to worry. He should wake up shortly, as the draught isn’t a long-lasting one.”

Fiona glared at Irving just as Anders was, Alistair joining in, but none of them said anything more. There was nothing to do but wait and listen to the deep, even breathing from Malcolm. Alistair certainly had no intention of drawing his sword until absolutely necessary. Though he’d once joked about it during the Blight, he didn’t really want to end his brother’s life with their father’s sword. Or at all, actually. He rather liked having him around, most of the time. 

One hour passed, three, and then five and Thierry started to get antsy. Alistair was fighting the same feeling himself, knowing that normally a mage would either have awakened, become an abomination, or have been slain outright by now. He and the two knight-commanders were the only ones left on their feet near Malcolm, though the templar guards at the door still remained standing. Irving had found a chair, as had Wynne, not even two hours into the ritual. Fiona had yet to sit, as she chose to alternately pace the room far from the templars or stand absolutely still near Malcolm. Anders had eventually given in to nervous boredom and set to making what looked like health poultices with extra components he’d brought. If anything, crafting would get his mind off the waiting part. Perhaps it would even erase some of the dread that continued to build up as more time passed by.

“For a short-acting draught, it’s taking him an awfully long time to wake up,” said Wynne, who then shot a questioning look at the First Enchanter. “Irving?”

Irving’s wizened fingers scraped through his beard. “He should have awakened by now. I don’t understand why he hasn’t.”

“Because he’s a mage and he’s either fallen into the demon’s trap or he can’t figure it out in the first place, meaning he should be killed because he can’t control his magic,” said Thierry.

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Isn’t the entire basis of your claim of him being a mage made on assuming that his control is so fantastic that he can hide his so-called connection to the Fade?”

“Either that or his ability is so small that it’s near unnoticeable. Meaning that in the Fade, he’s weak and easy prey,” Thierry replied.

“He’s _asleep_ ,” Anders repeated. “Not actually propelled, entirely aware, into the Fade like a mage is during a proper Harrowing. But somehow, I think he’s trapped there.” The mage’s fingers rubbed at the ever-present blond stubble along his jaw, and he stood, abandoning his efforts at making poultices. “You know, I remember in my own Harrowing that I had to figure out that the person who was ‘helping’ me was actually a demon himself. Then he gave me some speech about how demons and tests are everywhere and always, and then I woke up in my bunk.”

“We faced a sloth demon in the Circle Tower during the Blight,” Alistair said. “Malcolm should be able to sort that out another time, especially if it’s a pride demon instead. I mean, we’ve seen one of those before, too. That’s what possessed Uldred.”

“Yes, but Malcolm hasn’t got a mage with him to help deal with the Fade,” said Wynne, now up off the chair she’d been sitting on for the past hour. “To a non-mage, the Fade is as immutable as the earth is when we are awake.”

“I assumed the wrong thing,” Irving suddenly said. “I assumed that at the most, Malcolm would be sent into the Fade realm that was prepared, the demons would be uninterested since he’s not a mage, he’d converse with the pride demon, and then he’d be sent back. Pride demons tend to be a bit too proud to possess non-mages. It’s below them.”

“You’ll have to explain this to the rest of the class,” said Alistair. “As we don’t know how this all _works_ since you’re the only one who knows everything. Seriously, is it just me, or does the Circle keep just as many secrets as the Wardens?”

“More, probably.” Fiona stopped her study of Malcolm to face Irving, her fingers clinging tightly to the edges of her hauberk. “What have we done?”

Irving sighed. “The ritual works by sending a mage into the part of the Fade we lured the demon into. The trigger for the spell is the lyrium mixture combined with the sleeping draught. The trigger to get out of the Fade is to figure out that the demon who is helping you is actually the demon with the largest temptation, as Anders said earlier. That’s why the templars insist on killing mages who don’t awaken after five hours, because that means they haven’t the ability to figure out what’s going on.”

“Which means we should have killed him already,” said Ser Benoit.

“Deep Roads,” the king told him without looking. Benoit fell silent. To Irving, Alistair said, “But Malcolm is asleep, right? Shouldn’t he just... wake up?”

“I assumed that’s what would happen. That the spell wouldn’t take, that it would hold, or that maybe he’d figure things out on his own while in the Fade. But if he wasn’t sent into the Fade the same way as a mage would be, then he might not be in the section of the Fade that the demon is in. He has to trigger the end of the ritual somehow in order to end the Harrowing. He has to deal with that pride demon. A Harrowing won’t end on the Fade side unless the mage is possessed or figures out the demon’s tricks. A mage either wakes up or turns into an abomination. This is unprecedented.”

Alistair scowled. “Unprecedented? You don’t say. It isn’t like we didn’t just try to put a _non-mage_ through a _Harrowing_.”

“If he can’t manipulate the Fade, he won’t be able to get to that demon. He’ll stay trapped and his body will eventually die,” said Wynne. “Much like with what a sloth demon does to its victims.”

“That’s fantastic. We’re like sloth demons now, are we?” Alistair regretted the sharp edge to his comments when he saw Fiona wince, but the sarcasm was the only thing keeping him from starting to yell at people. However, the people he wanted to yell at, like Irving, deserved it. He ran a hand through his hair as he forced himself not to pace. “I’m serious. We’re no better than demons if he doesn’t come out of this.”

Thierry started stroking his mustache again, an action Alistair took as a giveaway that the man was seriously considering accepting a possibility. “So he looks like he’s undergoing the Harrowing, but in truth, he is not?”

Fiona’s dark eyes widened as the realization hit her. “We’ve put an non-mage into a Fade trap that cannot be escaped _except_ by a mage.”

“Well, someone has to go get him,” said Alistair. “I’d volunteer, but I’m not a mage.” He clamped down and held back the rest of his words, because they would hurt those who didn’t deserve the extra guilt. He didn’t need to remind them that sending a second non-mage into the same situation would yield results just as bad.

Benoit sneered. “Someone going in to fetch him would invalidate the entire ritual. The Divine would never stand for it. These mages _say_ he is asleep, but how can we be sure they aren’t covering for him, delaying us so that we don’t kill him? Giving him time to turn into an abomination and kill us all?”

“Yes, you’ve caught us, Ser Templar, in our evil, dastardly plan,” Anders said in a monotone. “Good eye.” Then he rolled his eyes and turned to Thierry. “Malcolm is asleep. If you want, we can mix up some sort of sleeping draught and put one of us mages to sleep, and one of your templars. Then you can do whatever magic-detecting thing it is that you do so you can see for yourself what the difference is between a sleeping mage and a sleeping non-mage. If you want, we could probably even convince one of the Dalish mages to pop in and show you what an apostate looks like when asleep, provide you promise not to kill them out of spite. Or kill them at all, actually. Perhaps then you’ll allow one or more of us to go into the Fade to retrieve Malcolm before he, you know, _dies_.”

“I can accept that. I would like one of the apostates to participate as well, if one of them will consent to it. Preferably not the younger one, though.” Thierry slid a look over at the seething Benoit. “And I think for the non-mage portion, we’ll have Ser Benoit do the honors. It’s only fair, considering we’re asking one of the Dalish mages to participate.”

Alistair decided that Thierry wasn’t half-bad for an Orlesian templar. He was certainly far more reasonable that the Benoit fellow under his command. Greagoir nodded his agreement to the plan, as did Irving after another moment of thought. Wynne volunteered to prepare the draughts and mentioned that Anders would be their best option for the Harrowed mage to go to sleep. Fiona looked over at Alistair. “Would you please go fetch Velanna?”

He nodded, took another long look at Malcolm, unsettled at seeing his brother’s scar stark against his pale cheek, and then headed out the doors. He was able to avoid running into Fergus and Eamon, but finding Velanna alone wasn’t an option. She was in a small dining room, sitting with Nathaniel, Líadan, Oghren, and Riordan. All five of them were on their feet as soon as he entered the room.

“You don’t _quite_ look like someone died,” said Oghren.

“How did it go?” Riordan asked.

Alistair purposefully kept from looking Líadan in the eyes, because he knew she’d instantly see how worried he was. “It’s still going. There was a lot of really complicated magical explanations, but the short of it is that Malcolm isn’t a mage. Problem is, he’s trapped in the Fade because with the spell the ritual uses, you have to be a mage to trigger the escape, so to speak. At least, I think that’s what the explanation was. Anyway, we’re trying to convince the Orlesian knight-commander that Malcolm really is truly just asleep, and once he’s convinced of that, one of the other mages can go into the Fade and get him out.” He paused, took another breath, and then explained Anders’ plan for proving that Malcolm was asleep. Each Warden in the room volunteered for whatever part they could play, including Velanna, to Alistair’s surprise. He’d assumed that he would have to beg or even launch into an explanation on why they couldn’t let Líadan do it. 

“Let me,” said Líadan, which he’d seen coming a long way off.

The king set his shoulders and forced himself to look the Dalish elf in the eyes. “You can’t. It’s too dangerous.” He paused and held up his hands to stop her objections. “You’re volatile from the whole situation with Ser Benoit. The demons would pounce on that and you’d be under assault from the second you entered the Fade, even in your sleep, due to all the magic going on in that room right now. I need someone who isn’t as close to the situation.”

“I will do it,” Velanna said to Alistair, and then she looked at Líadan. “I am not as close to him as you are.”

“Oh, come on—”

“Stone take it, elf, we’re not sodding _blind_ ,” Oghren said. “Let the other elf do it. From all that the surfacers say about this magic stuff, it seems like the safest option to me. Besides, weren’t you supposed to be recovering from some injuries? I seem to recall a certain elf being trapped in a cave-in for a few days.” He tapped the bottom of his flask against the wooden table as he studied Velanna. “Though I’m surprised to see that you’re volunteering to help the princely nughumper. You haven’t exactly been his biggest sodding fan.”

“I’m not doing it for him,” Velanna said. “I’m doing it for Líadan.”

The elf in question rolled her eyes. “Don’t trouble yourself on my account. I could stand in just fine.” Gunnar pushed his head underneath Líadan’s hand and she idly scratched him behind the ears. Somehow, it seemed to calm the elf a little.

“No, you could not. You are still recovering, not to mention that you being in the same room with that ridiculous excuse for a templar will end in nothing but bloodshed. I am well. I will do it. You will just have to wait here with the others, whether you like it or not.” Velanna strode over to Alistair. “Now, let us go. From what you said, I gather that time is short.”

“I... yes.” Alistair turned and started down the hall, trying to forget the slightly crumpled look he’d seen on Líadan’s face. Oghren was there, though, and Riordan. They’d distract her like brothers should in helping a sister. It would work out just fine. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. He almost believed it. “So, you aren’t going to kill Ser Benoit when we walk in there, are you?” he asked Velanna, recalling that she hadn’t exactly expressed a strong liking towards the young Orlesian templar, either.

“Not immediately, no. Perhaps after all this is over, I will help carry him to the Deep Roads. But I imagine you will help us in that task. I am not sure that his commander will even object.”

“Somehow, I don’t think he would. Also, the templar who is serving as the non-mage in this little experiment will be Ser Benoit.” When Velanna chucked, he grinned. “Yes, I thought you might like that.”

The sleeping draughts were ready by the time they arrived at the main hall. Benoit looked ready to object to being the non-mage participant at seeing Velanna enter the room, but dark looks from Thierry and Greagoir kept him quiet. It took only minutes for the three of them to fall asleep, lying helpless on the floor near where Malcolm was in a similar state. Alistair could sense the differences in them already. Anders and Velanna had a persistent, powerful aura of magic, a connection to the Fade that was so strong that Alistair could almost see it. He was surprised that he couldn’t. From Benoit, he felt nothing, saw nothing that indicated he had anything to do with the Fade. The loud snores that almost immediately issued from the templar’s mouth indicated that he was asleep. Other than that, nothing, and definitely not any magic. Malcolm felt the same as Benoit, except he was eerily silent in his sleep.

“I’m willing to accept that Prince Malcolm is not an apostate,” Thierry said, looking up from studying Malcolm’s unconscious form. “Please, one of you go and retrieve him before anything more happens.”

Irving, Wynne, and Fiona argued momentarily over who would go into the Fade, but Alistair realized that Irving and Fiona were only giving token objections. Irving was clearly too tired, as dark circles smudged the skin under his eyes, and he looked like he would fall asleep at any second. Fiona, Alistair knew, was as risky a choice as Líadan was. Though she could never admit it, she was far too close to the situation and Malcolm. All of them could practically see the guilt crawling through her eyes, though no one would think it no more than a friend’s guilt over almost causing a terrible accident. Wynne, with her affinity for the Fade and her prior performance when they’d been trapped by the sloth demon, was absolutely the best choice. Irving and Fiona helped with the spell that sent Wynne into the Fade fully aware to search for Malcolm and bring him home.

That task on its way, the two conscious mages turned to the people still on the floor, who were beginning to come awake, the draught already wearing off. Anders was the first to sit up, eyes quickly moving to Malcolm. “Still trapped, I take it?”

Alistair nodded, and then motioned towards the older human woman’s prone body. “Wynne’s gone to get him. Knight-Commander Thierry accepted that Malcolm was asleep and not a mage and not enduring the Harrowing.” He made a mental note to ask Thierry later for his declaration in writing, signed and sealed.

Anders smiled. “Excellent. I’m also thrilled to be awake, because there were a _lot_ of demons roaming about. Considerably more than usual. They don’t make for very good company, I’ll tell you that much.” He looked over at Benoit. “Do we really need to let him wake up?” He sighed before anyone could reply. “I suppose we do.”

The young templar was already waking, armor clanking as he wiped at his face and sat up. Like Anders, his eyes immediately went to Malcolm. “The apostate is still alive, I see.”

“He’s not an apostate,” Thierry said, looking over from his watch on Wynne and Malcolm. “We determined that while you were asleep. It would do you well to remember to call him by his proper title. He’s a prince of Ferelden. Try not to forget that, Ser Benoit.”

Benoit looked unconvinced, but didn’t complain. Instead, he got up and walked over to where he’d left his helm, apparently finished with the conversation.

Then Alistair felt an odd sensation in the air behind him, something akin to the snap of magic, but murky. Darker. A sensation he hadn’t felt since the Blight, in the Circle Tower. He quickly turned to look at Wynne, but she looked perfectly fine. A bit drawn, maybe, but she was old and they’d been at this ritual for a long time. Malcolm looked and felt normal as well. As the king spun to look at the last unconscious mage, Knight-Commander Greagoir was already on his feet, hand drawing his sword. 

“No, no, no,” said Anders, pleading even as he backed away from where Velanna’s form remained on the floor.

But she wasn’t Velanna any longer, and Alistair saw it. Witnessed the changes, the places where the skin had started to bubble, twisting and bending as some demon took possession of her body. Maker take them all, they should have kept Velanna out of the Fade. He hadn’t thought of the danger she posed because she was in a different sort of danger. She wasn’t close to the situation like Líadan or Fiona were, but she was certainly susceptible to the sort of demons that had been summoned for the Harrowing. Especially the sodding pride demon. Damn. It’d probably offered her something to get even with the Architect for what that creature had done to her sister. And she was so proud before that she’d killed all those humans on a very flimsy pretext that it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that she still suffered from the same pride. He couldn’t believe he’d been so focused on everything else that he hadn’t objected to using her. And Anders had even _said_ that the Fade had been teeming with demons and they hadn’t pulled her out immediately, instead waiting for her to wake up on her own.

Something that she would never do.

Velanna’s body started to writhe, as if something had gotten under her skin and sought to stretch and change it to its own liking. Greagoir recited a quick verse from the Chant of Light, swore, and plunged his Sword of Mercy into the Dalish elf’s chest. The writhing stopped, and then the body stilled as blood spread in a wide pool beneath it.


	48. Chapter 48

**Chapter 48**

“According to Brahm, the weakest and most common of demons are those of rage. They are the least intelligent and most prone to violent outbursts against the living. They expend energies quickly, the most powerful of them exhibiting great strength and occasionally the ability to generate fire.

Next are the demons of hunger. In a living host they become cannibals and vampires, and within the dead they feed upon the living. Theirs are powers of draining, both of life force and of mana.

Next are the demons of sloth, the first on Brahm’s scale that are capable of true intelligence. In its true form, this demon in known as a shade, a thing which is nearly indistinct and invisible, for such is sloth’s nature. It hides and stalks, unaware, and when confronted, it sows fatigue and apathy.

Demons of desire are amongst the most powerful, and are the ones most likely to seek out the living and actively trick them into a deal. These demons will exploit anything that can be coveted—wealth, power, lust—and they will always end up getting far more than they give. A desire demon’s province is that of illusions and mind control.

Strongest of all demons are those of pride. These are the most feared creatures to loose upon the world: Masters of magic and in possession of vast intellect, they are the true schemers. It is they who seek most strongly to possess mages, and will bring other demons across the Veil in numbers to achieve their own ends—although what that might be has never been discovered. A greater pride demon, brought across the Veil, would threaten the entire world.”

—from _The Maker’s First Children_ , by Bader, Senior Enchanter of Ostwick, 8:12 Blessed

**Malcolm**

He couldn’t fathom what he was doing in Tevinter. Yet he stood just outside the dilapidated city, people bustling around him or into him, knocking him aside without a care in the world. The long shadow of the Thalsian Tower cut across the cityscape, dominating the buildings around and below it. Malcolm recognized the building from illustrations in books. It was the tallest construct in Minrathous and all of Tevinter. He’d read that it was where the Imperial Archon lived and purposely constructed that tall to show how the archons were better than...  pretty much everyone else on Thedas. 

Hadn’t worked out so well, in the end, what with the darkspawn and all.

Malcolm frowned. He didn’t want to be in Tevinter and he certainly didn’t want to go into Minrathous. He already had the nagging feeling that something was missing. The last thing he wanted in this murderous heat was to be surrounded by throngs of people. With an exasperated sigh, he turned and walked in the opposite direction, towards the rolling fields that surrounded the city. As he walked, he took in the state of the fields, noticing that while they should be farmed, they were all fallow instead. No grains grew, nor crops of any kind. There wasn’t any livestock that he could see, either. He’d known Tevinter was in a bad way because of their war with the qunari, but he hadn’t thought them badly enough off to forget farming. When the famine started, they’d certainly remember _then_. 

He put his head down and continued putting distance between himself and Minrathous. Then something collided with him and sent him reeling backwards, nearly toppling him over. His head snapped up to glare at whoever had run into him and he came face to face with another Grey Warden.

“Marius?” Malcolm managed to say, though plenty of other questions tumbled through his mind. But all he could get out was the missing Warden’s name. The man was supposed to be dead. Well, they’d assumed that he was dead when he never resurfaced after going to Minrathous from Weisshaupt. Of course, he could still be dead and Malcolm had merely joined him. That could be what was causing the whole sensation that he was missing something. His _life_ certainly seemed a prime candidate for it.

The Tevinter man’s black hair hung in lank strips in front of his dark eyes. Malcolm caught movement as Marius looked toward him. But even though the man looked in his direction, Malcolm realized that Marius wasn’t looking _at_ him. Marius blinked, as if he was just noticing that Malcolm was standing there. Then the older man said, “One of my children will soon be reborn, Beauty in a little wolf, twinned with a wolf king.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Bloody hands reached out and grasped Malcolm at the shoulders. “From this, change will come to His world, and vengeance will be mine.”

“Obviously, you’ve gone mad.” Though Malcolm suspected he’d gone a bit mad himself and really had no place going around accusing others of the same thing. After all, he still couldn’t figure out what in all the Fade he was doing in Tevinter. And what had he lost? What was missing? He really didn’t want to seriously contemplate the idea of being in the Fade permanently because he was dead.

Marius grinned and squeezed Malcolm’s shoulders. “It’s a message!” He flung his arms out, and then dropped them as he frowned. “For... someone important, I think. Perhaps you could pass it along? Yes?”

 _No?_ “To whom?”

The odd grin came back. “You’ll think of who it is. Glad I found someone to give it to, though. I was getting tired of repeating it.” 

A roar sounded from the sky and Marius flinched. Both he and Malcolm dropped flat to the dusty road as a dragon flew over them. Then Marius hauled Malcolm to his feet and they were running, and the maroon-scaled dragon giving chase. The dragon swooped down and plucked Marius up between its powerful jaws. As Marius screamed, dangling by one leg from the dragon’s mouth, Malcolm tripped and went sprawling. He didn’t have time to slow his fall and he smacked his temple on one of the rocks protruding from the dirt. Pain lanced through his skull and his vision blurred, darkening as he heard the thrumming of the dragon’s wings approaching. Then everything went black.

He opened his eyes and found himself in a mass of people clamoring and pointing at the bright sky. His hand gingerly felt at his head, and he was surprised to find that he didn’t feel any blood, or even a bump or tenderness of any kind. The crowd around him murmured in a language that was vaguely familiar, yet he couldn’t place most of the words they spoke. He struggled to his feet and searched around for clues as to where he was. Something was missing, he felt it. Someone. There was emptiness, the essence of someone missing in a shape he couldn’t identify.

The voices around him got louder and additional recognizable words started popping out, things that meant praise and worship. The crowd’s motions drew his attention to the sky and he shaded his eyes with his hand and looked. Then he understood. He _understood._ He fell to his knees at the sight, his own voice joining the voices of the rest, rising up to praise the power and beauty of the high dragons soaring in circles above them. How could he not have known about this? How did he not believe it before?

Then the sky cracked and the light became so bright that the people squeezed their eyes shut and cowered in pain. Tremors rocked the ground and sent shudders through their bodies. They opened their eyes again to near-darkness. Screams sounded through the twilight, punctuated by more cracks as the ground started opening up around them. Shouts echoed as people plummeted into the gaping holes, and then the shouts rose in volume as the dragons fell from the sky. Malcolm jumped to his feet and set himself, ready to stand his ground. But the ground disappeared, dropping down and him with it, hurtling towards nothingness. The earth swallowed them all, dragons and people alike.  The worshippers wailed as the dragons did, tormented by the darkness that took them.

For a moment, there was silence. Sounds returned, one by one, loose pebbles skittering down inclines, fingers clawing through dirt, but it was all dampened by the overwhelming darkness. Malcolm opened his eyes as wide as he could, yet he saw nothing but the blackness. He panicked and flung his arms out. They encountered nothing to push away, nothing to help end the darkness. He wondered if he’d gone blind and feared that he would forever see nothing. But his ears worked and he heard crying somewhere in the distance, moving to fill his head. He frowned and spun in an attempt to locate the sounds, but they were everywhere. Instead of the terror-filled screams from before, the wails begged for freedom. All around him, he heard a song of sorrow, pleas to be saved, rescued, and freed to the open sky once more.

A thin shaft of light stabbed through the black prison and called to them with the fetching nature of freedom. Malcolm stumbled toward the light, the darkness falling away behind him. The sorrow receded, and in its place, Malcolm heard the call of a crow. 

He blinked and the darkness had entirely gone, leaving him standing in the middle of a grassy field. Out of the corner of his eye, Malcolm thought he could see Minrathous again, but he was too afraid to turn and look. In front of him, sitting on a lone rock in the bare field, was the crow. Its golden eyes continued to watch him as he came to a shocked halt. He squinted at the bird, confused at its unsettling familiarity, and struggled to remember why he felt like he should be hiding. After another moment of him standing and staring, the crow cawed one more time, and then flew into the air.

Its wings expanded, stretching far beyond a normal crow’s wingspan. The feathers shifted into scales, black to iridescent maroon, and Malcolm remembered why he should have hidden. But it was too late, and the dragon had found him after all. His fingertips went numb with fear as he gaped at the dragon looming over him, and he waited to be killed as prey does for a hunter.

Death made no appearance. Instead, the dragon continued its winding upward journey into the sky, twirling once in a lazy circle before it flew past him and out of sight. The wind left in the dragon’s wake whispered in a familiar voice: _“The dance is far from over.”_

Malcolm stumbled forward, bracing his hands on the rough surface of the lone rock. Another figure emerged on the opposite side of the field and he studied it. He smiled, seeing that the figure was familiar and, for once, not at all threatening. Her eyes were troubled and her brow furrowed, but she wasn’t the dragon. He raised his hand in greeting, wondering what Wynne was doing in Tevinter. Maybe she knew what this dance was about.

Then he woke up.

“Flemeth is alive,” he said in almost a murmur, blinking rapidly as he tried to orient himself. Right. He’d been in the Fade, sent there to prove to the templars that he wasn’t a mage. But he remembered he was supposed to meet with some sort of demon, and he didn’t think that had occurred. Not exactly. Well, he figured Flemeth could be considered a demon, but he doubted she was the one they intended him to meet. Even though he recognized that he wasn’t in the Fade any longer, something about the air in the room felt wrong. He slowly sat up and went to wipe at his face, but stopped when he saw that his hand was covered with blood. He distinctly remembered putting his hand in a pool of _lyrium_ not _blood_. Malcolm looked down, saw a small trail of blood extending under his body, and followed the winding path of blood to it source. The fear he’d felt in the Fade returned as his eyes caught on the twisted form of an abomination with pointed ears. “Who—”

“Velanna,” Alistair said.

“But she wasn’t even here. She wasn’t supposed to be a part of this. I don’t understand.”

“It must have been the pride demon that was summoned for the Harrowing,” said Wynne, who was sitting up near him.

“The one _we_ summoned,” said Fiona, her dark eyes staring at what had once been a Dalish elf, proud and strong. Yet not strong enough, and just a little too proud.

Malcolm used his blood-free hand to rub at his eyes in an attempt to clear his mind. It didn’t work. When he moved his hand away, Velanna was still dead, Flemeth’s voice still echoed in his ears, and he still had to grapple with everything he’d seen in the Fade. At remembering the dragon’s words, he turned and gave Wynne a curious glance. “I saw you, didn’t I? In the Fade.”

Her weary eyes moved slowly from staring at Velanna’s body to regard Malcolm. “I was,” she said, and then paused, weighing her next words.

He broke in before she could continue. “Did you see the—”

“Yes.”

“Did you _hear_ the—”

“Yes,” she said, interrupting again. “There is _much_ we need to talk about, young man. Flemeth being very much alive is certainly near the top of that list.”

Oh, _that_ was a particularly bad tone of voice with her, especially coupled with calling him ‘young man.’ He winced and looked away, but the view in the other direction was even worse. Greagoir stood beside the remains, his mouth set into a hard line while wiping blood off his blade. Thierry walked towards where Irving and Anders were talking, and he held out a hand to stop the other Orlesian templars from approaching. His face wasn’t so much grim as determined, as if he’d thought of a new task that he felt must be accomplished as soon as humanly possible. Fiona cast another guilty look towards the body before starting in Malcolm and Wynne’s direction. As she passed by him, her hand briefly touched his shoulder. He understood the message—she was glad to see that he was safe. He also understood why that was as much affection as she dared express, since they couldn’t risk exposure of his and Alistair’s natural mother’s identity, especially not now. Not when a life had already been lost in keeping the secret. Fiona then knelt next to Wynne and the two women fell into a quiet conversation. 

Alistair had yet to move from his spot across from Greagoir, closer to Malcolm. One hand remained on the hilt of his sword, while his focus stayed on the body near his feet. Malcolm could put together some of the events that must have happened while he was in the Fade. Both Alistair and Greagoir must have seen the transformation, but Greagoir had acted instantly, while Alistair had frozen. It made sense, given that Greagoir was a full templar and had ostensibly witnessed many Harrowings. The practice would have given him the chance to develop the ability to immediately separate the mage from the abomination it had become, allowing him to act without hesitation. Alistair had obviously thought of acting, and most likely had been only seconds behind Greagoir, but the older man had gotten there first. Both appeared troubled at the deadly turn of events, and that reinforced Malcolm’s opinion that Greagoir was fundamentally a good man. Had the knight-commander been happy, Malcolm would’ve thought quite differently. 

“Is the Veil sundered?” Thierry asked Greagoir.

The Fereldan templar looked up from his grisly task. “No. I don’t think so.” He glanced over at the First Enchanter. “Irving?”

“No. While the magic attracted the attention of the demons in the Fade, that attraction only lasted as long as the spell did. It is safe now.”

Thierry frowned at the corpse on the ground. “So if another mage were to fall asleep in this place, that mage would not have to worry about being tempted by a demon?”

“Not any more than usual,” said Anders. “Like Irving said, the attraction was the spell, and in part, the summoning itself. With those gone, the danger falls back to whatever any mage puts up with when they sleep.” He narrowed his eyes at the Orlesian knight-commander. “Why do you ask?”

“We brought in an apostate, an unharrowed mage, and she became an abomination right before our very eyes. Who’s to say that the same won’t happen with the other apostate Warden? You even said that _this_ one was more stable than the other. I’m not sure we would be fulfilling our duty if we left such a danger around. I think, perhaps, that she should be dealt with before something else like this happens.”

Alistair sighed. “Knight-Commander, we failed to consider circumstances that weren’t nearly as immediate as the current ones when we decided who to send to sleep. Velanna experienced... well, let’s just say that she’s experienced things that are well beyond the norm for anyone’s existence, human, elf, or pretty much anyone. Líadan might have been close to the situation, but now I’m seeing that most likely, those emotions wouldn’t have put her in danger of succumbing to temptation from a demon. Because I didn’t think of Velanna’s issues sooner, she died. The—”

“You don’t hold sole responsibility for her death, Alistair,” said Wynne. “We all should have seen it.”

Malcolm got to his feet, surprised at how sore his back felt, and he wondered exactly how long he’d been unconscious on the floor. He wanted to know what’d happened during that time, too, but that was far less important than making sure these templars didn’t try to ‘deal’ with Líadan. “I don’t know what happened, but I don’t think Líadan’s in any danger of possession.” He didn’t bother explaining to the knight-commander that if he and his fellow Orlesian templars tried interfering with a Warden that _they_ would be in danger of death. Something like that should’ve been painfully obvious by now, even to the rather thick templars.

“You were trapped,” said Fiona, now standing next to him, with Wynne on her opposite side. “When you were sent into the Fade, you weren’t sent to the section you were supposed to be in. Since you aren’t a mage, you didn’t have a way to interact with the pride demon and end the Harrowing, so you were trapped. We sent Wynne into the Fade to get you out. But before we could do any of that,” Fiona paused and glared at Thierry, “we had to prove to the knight-commander that you weren’t a mage.”

“How we did that was my idea, actually,” said Anders, carefully not looking at the body on the floor. Then he explained how they’d showed the templars what their connection to the Fade felt like between a Harrowed mage, an apostate, and a non-mage. “We didn’t think of how strong the demon presence would be for a mage, even in other parts of the Fade, just because of the presence of strong magic in this area. We know, now, but it’s...” he trailed off and shrugged. “Too late.”

“Not for the other apostate,” said Thierry. “We can prevent something like this from happening again. I am willing to put her through the Harrowing.”

“That’s nice, because I’m not willing to let you,” Alistair said. “We’ve already lost one life to this farce. The Grey Wardens have better things to do with their time other than to try and cooperate with ridiculous Chantry campaigns.”

Thierry made an attempt at reasoning with the Fereldan king. “King Alistair—”

But Alistair wouldn’t hear it, and he cut him off. “No. Nothing you can say will sway my option. Certainly not while one woman’s dead body is lying right here, her blood staining the stone floor under our feet.”

“So you’re assuming already that the other apostate will fail her Harrowing, your Majesty?” asked Ser Benoit.

“Shut up, Ser Benoit,” snapped Greagoir, “or by Andraste’s holy sword, I will shut you up myself.” The Fereldan knight-commander took a calming breath, and then looked down at the sword still in his hands. The others allowed him the silence because, as the bare sword illustrated, Greagoir had been the one to end Velanna’s life. Or, rather, what Velanna’s life had become. After a long moment, he sheathed it and turned to the rest the group. “We don’t need any more of this conflict. It shouldn’t even have occurred in the first place.” He pointed at Malcolm. “That young man is not a mage. Irving and I have said this from the beginning, Thierry. You refused to listen, waving your proclamation from the Divine in our faces as reason to disbelieve our perfectly valid assessments. We cooperated with you in this farce,” he said, and then paused and nodded at Alistair for coming up with the proper word, “for far too long. There was no reason for that young woman to die in order to prove anything. Had she been given the proper amount of time to heal from whatever her emotional ills were, she would have recovered and gone on with her life, fighting the darkspawn as a needed Grey Warden. Instead, we put her into a dangerous position that ultimately caused an early death.”

None of the Wardens in the room added that even for a Warden, Velanna’s death had been an early one. And that was given that they each had about thirty years from their Joining, give or take an archdemon.

“But—” Thierry started.

Greagoir had no intention of stopping. “No. You will listen to me, Knight-Commander. I’m the one with that woman’s blood on my hands. Not you. I’ve seen these Wardens operate. During the Blight, they managed to restore order to a Circle that had been taken over by a pride demon fueled abomination. There are are no known records of any Warden mages—without Chantry intervention—becoming abominations. They are capable of keeping watch over their own. I am fairly certain that had we not done what we did today, Velanna never would have turned. You may not be able to see it, but I certainly do. _We_ put someone into a situation they weren’t ready for. _We_ left them without protection and exposed them to mortal danger. That is a responsibility that we will always bear. Our pride in our supposedly superior knowledge led to this outcome and that is just as much a sin as what happened with this mage. As the ranking templar in Ferelden, I am ordering you to leave this country and return to Val Royeaux, Knight-Commander Thierry. You may report to the Divine that the apostate she seeks does not exist. The templars in Ferelden will have nothing else to do with this _farce_. We have far more worthy things to do with our time. Now, if you will excuse us, we have a funeral to arrange.” Greagoir took yet another breath, and then turned to Alistair. “Your Majesty, I am unsure of the funerary customs of the Dalish. However, we will need to burn the body, as it is... corrupted.”

“Yes, I remember my lessons,” Alistair replied. Then he looked over at Malcolm. “What do the Dalish do for their dead, do you know?”

Malcolm found that he couldn’t look away from the grotesque form that had once been Velanna. “They bury them,” he said absently. “They put an oak stave and a cedar branch in the grave with the body. After they fill the hole, they plant a sapling over the grave.” He looked at Alistair. “We could collect the ashes and bury those, though, with the rest. I’m sure there’s a stand of trees that we could find nearby, and a sapling, too.” It wasn’t much, but it was something. A gesture. He knew Velanna would’ve been horrified one way or another, especially after seeing her reaction to the pyre Andrastians used. But it couldn’t be helped. They had to burn this sort of body. They had no choice. All they could do was alleviate the insult as best they could and honor her in what ways they were able.

Alistair nodded. “Do you want to tell Líadan?”

“No.” He let out a nervous cough at imagining how poorly she’d react. “No, I don’t.”

“I will tell her,” said Fiona, “and the other Wardens. They’ll want to know you’re alive, as well.” She brushed past the other people and walked out the doors without waiting for approval. Then again, since she was a Senior Warden and apparently had more courage than Malcolm and Alistair combined, she really didn’t need to ask for permission. Malcolm was relieved that it was Fiona who would tell Líadan. He hadn’t failed to notice that the two women had bonded in some way, so the news coming from Fiona maybe wouldn’t hit as hard. Then again, he wasn’t quite sure _how_ hard Líadan would take the news. There wasn’t exactly any love lost between the two Dalish elves. However, Líadan wasn’t the type of person to revel in another’s death. From Anders’ explanation, it seemed like Velanna had been chosen to help in Líadan’s place. Malcolm held in a sigh, as that meant Líadan would probably feel responsible for Velanna’s death by thinking she should’ve died in her place.

Fantastic. They were all guilty though, every single one of them. Like Greagoir had said, none of this had to have taken place. Malcolm knew he could have cooperated and accompanied the Orlesian templars back to Val Royeaux without a fight. It stood to reason that _eventually_ the mess would’ve gotten sorted out if he had gone. At the very least, Velanna wouldn’t be dead, and instead of arguing with the templars, the Wardens could’ve been taking care of the problem in Kal’Hirol. A problem that they really, really needed to attend to as quickly as possible, because the Mother tainting Morrigan and her Old God child would be incredibly bad. World-ending kind of bad. Something that Riordan really needed to know. Hopefully one of the other Wardens who’d been up in Drake’s Fall with him had mentioned the new information while he’d been otherwise occupied in the Fade. 

“Greagoir, Wynne, and I can see to the body,” said Irving. 

Wynne nodded. “Yes. I’ll go see if I can find proper linen cloth for a shroud.” Then she was out the door as well. 

Thierry shifted his weight, and then said, “Well then, if you will excuse us, your Majesty, my templars and I have a report to make.”

“Not so fast,” said Alistair. “You and I need to make a stop wherever you keep your writing supplies so that you can write out and officially seal a little document that states that Malcolm is not a mage. You already said in front of witnesses that he wasn’t. I want it in writing. Irrefutable proof in case other templars get any ideas.”

The Orlesian opened his mouth slightly, and then shut it, apparently having thought better of his initial impulse. Then he said, “Fine, I shall do so. If you will follow me then, your Majesty.” After Alistair nodded, Thierry motioned his templars to follow him, and the group noisily exited. 

Malcolm glanced over at Irving and Greagoir, taking in how tired both men looked. Maker, the two men seemed liked they’d aged at least a decade since the start of this debacle. “Are you sure you don’t want help from any of the Wardens?” 

It took a moment for Irving to even glance up. “No, thank you. We would prefer to do this ourselves.” He didn’t need to say what he really meant; that helping to make Velanna’s remains ready for a pyre was an atonement of sorts for the part he’d played in her death.

“All right.” Malcolm wondered what he should be doing. Enough time had passed since Fiona had left, so Líadan had to know by now. Perhaps the other Wardens, too. That meant it would be safe to find Riordan and make sure he knew about the Mother and the Architect’s plans and the strange mythical god or clan or whatever it was the Architect had talked about. He glanced over at Anders, and his eyes again caught on Velanna’s remains. For her, he wasn’t sure what to do. He wished he could bury her ashes next to her niece, but they just didn’t have time to go to the Wending Wood for it. They could keep the ashes and wait, he supposed. Or maybe he could find a good spot around the castle, and then plant another sapling in the Wending Wood once they’d taken care of Kal’Hirol. He’d take a walk around the woods later with Gunnar and see what he could find. There were a few places that might be suitable.

“We should probably go meet with the other Wardens,” said Anders.

“I suppose.” Malcolm headed for the side doors. 

Anders followed him, not speaking until the doors closed behind them. “That could have been me, you know.”

Malcolm reflexively glanced back at the room they’d just exited. “Somehow, I don’t think so. You didn’t have those kind of issues. At least not any as massive as she had.”

“I guess.” Along with the mage’s answer came a shrug expressing exactly how unconvinced he was at the reassurance. But there was nothing for it. Only time could heal the wounds the day had wrought. And some wounds, nothing could heal.

A bark sounded and Gunnar appeared at the other end of the hallway, barreling towards Malcolm. He skidded to a stop at his master’s feet, and then looked at the closed doors of the main hall and whined. Malcolm crouched down to the dog’s level, using both hands to rub behind the mabari’s ears. “Yeah, I know,” he said, stealing another glance down the corridor before turning back to his dog. “Someone died. Someone always dies. This time it was Velanna.” He gave the dog another good scratch, and then stood up.

“Makes me wonder who will be next,” said Anders.

Gunnar whined again.

“Yes, I know, Ser Dog. We are not the most cheerful group today. My apologies. The Fade tends to do that to people. At least to me, anyway.”

Malcolm scowled. “I sodding hate the Fade. And templars.”

“Now that’s mage talk, right there. I think you hang around us too much.” Anders frowned and tapped at his chin as if in deep thought. “Or a certain one of us too much.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on. We need a fun subject to talk about. That one is fun, if you’d just, you know, _talk_ about it.”

“Seriously, I haven’t a clue.”

Anders narrowed his eyes at him. “Why not?”

“I’m under the threat of death. Wait, no, ghastly torture, and _then_ death. Or was it constant ghastly torture and wishing for death? Something like that. Anyway, thoroughly unpleasant future, all in all, if I chat about the thing that you’re referring to that I know nothing about.” Though Malcolm was fairly certain that had Líadan heard his blabbering right then, she’d have taken her revenge, and gladly.

“Fine, fine. Be that way. I’ll find out though, just you wait.”

Somehow, Malcolm didn’t doubt it. Their stomachs started growling and the two Wardens headed for the kitchens before starting the search for the rest of the Wardens in earnest. While they were procuring a snack large enough for a meal, the other Wardens, searching for their own food, found them. Riordan explained that Fiona and Líadan had gone to help Irving, Greagoir, and Wynne with Velanna. As the group ate, the Warden Commander went over the actions he’d taken while they were up in Drake’s Fall and events that’d occurred during the ritual with the mages and templars. It turned out that Oghren and Líadan had already caught Riordan up on what was going on with the Mother and the Architect. 

“While you were conducting that Harrowing, or whatever mess it turned out to be,” continued Riordan, “one of the messengers I sent to Orzammar returned. He brought back copies of the better Deep Roads maps from the Shaperate so we can match up what we’re discovering out here. He also brought back some disturbing news—King Endrin has fallen ill and rumor is that he might die soon.”

“That’s too bad,” said Oghren. “Endrin’s the best king I know.”

“You mean I’m not?” asked Alistair, feigning hurt.

“Since you’re a surfacer, you’re disqualified, pike-twirler. But, since I’m nice, I’ll give you an honorable mention.”

Alistair rubbed at the perpetual scruff on his chin. “I suppose this means I won’t get my face on one of those big statues in Orzammar. Pity, really. I think this face was meant for that sort of thing.”

Nathaniel made a choking noise in his throat and the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. It was the first sign of any emotion the man had expressed since silently following the other Wardens into the dining room. At seeing Nathaniel’s empty expression, Malcolm had realized that Velanna had been Nathaniel’s friend. He wasn’t sure if it had gone beyond that, but he _was_ sure that they’d shared a bond of more than just the traditional Warden bond. While the rest of them regretted Velanna’s death, it seemed that Nathaniel was someone who truly mourned it. Because, of course, Nathaniel needed more to brood about. 

“I think I’d pay to see that,” said Anders. 

Oghren shrugged. “Well, they made Branka a Paragon. I guess that means all bets are off.” Then he looked at Riordan. “There’ll be a problem with the succession. When I left Orzammar, rumor was that Prince Bhelen had something to do with his oldest brother’s death and possibly framed the middle child for it. My bet is that the sodding deshyrs will have a field day, and half will probably support the perpetual stick-up-his-ass Harrowmont. My recommendation is to stay the sodding Stone away from Orzammar for the next decade.”

“We may not have that luxury,” Riordan replied. “The Wardens are too well-known in Orzammar to not give our respects if King Endrin dies. However, we’ll deal with that when it happens. For now, our attention needs to be on Kal’Hirol. We’ve delayed long enough. While I’d like to be able to do more for Velanna than a simple pyre and finding a proper place around here to bury her ashes, we simply do not have the time.”

“She was starting to come around,” said Nathaniel.

Riordan stopped as he lifted his bread. “I know.”

Oghren shifted in his seat and cleared his throat before turning to Malcolm. “I told Fergus and Eamon about that dragon. I think that chancellor of yours about soiled his drawers when I said there’s a half-tailed high dragon flying around in the mountains to the west.”

“Which reminds me,” said Riordan, “Alistair and Malcolm. If you two could never pull anything like that again, I would greatly appreciate it. The diplomatic problems that would arise should one or both of you be killed on a mission like that would be horrendous. I, for one, would like to avoid them, and avoid getting the Grey Wardens getting kicked out of Ferelden again.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t kick out the Wardens. I mean, if I did, I’d have to kick myself out, too. Hard to rule a country while in exile.”

“You wouldn’t kick us out, but if you were dead and so was Malcolm, don’t you think Eamon might be a little irritated?”

“Well, when you put it that way, I can’t really argue.” The king held his hands up in surrender. “Look, don’t worry. I’ve no plan to try it again. I learned my lesson, I promise.”

Riordan moved his gaze expectantly to Malcolm.

He sighed. “No more adventuring with my brother. I get it.” Feeling a sudden need to escape the confines of the castle, he stood up. “Here, I’ll go scout out a place for us to bury Velanna. Maybe find a sapling, if I can.”

“It’s nearly dusk, so you might want to hurry,” said Oghren.

“I won’t be long. Back by full dark, even, no worries. I’ve a pretty good idea of where I want to go.” Malcolm walked out of the room, Gunnar trotting at his side. It didn’t take him long before he was out of the keep, through the barbican, and heading for the cliffs. It took him less time than he thought to find the right copse of trees and mentally noted its location before heading back to the castle. He hadn’t needed much of a break, just time to clear his head with things that were completely familiar—the scent of the sea and the lulling sounds of the waves breaking against the cliffs.

It was the crash of the ocean’s waves that masked the sounds of someone approaching. A growl from Gunnar alerted Malcolm to a stranger’s presence. At the same time, he felt the taint and realized that it couldn’t be that much of a stranger. “Whoever you are, show yourself, or the mabari drags you out.”

A woman in dusky dragonbone armor stepped out from behind the trees to his left, where the short coastline trail extended toward the city of Highever. Once fully out of the trees, she threw back her hood, revealing ash blonde hair pulled into a severe bun, and icy blue eyes that matched the chill air of the Anderfels.

“Astrid,” Malcolm said.

She inclined her head. “Warden Malcolm.”

He caught the slight admonition in her choice of titles. It scolded him for not doing so for her, and asked him why at the same time. “Because of whatever you told the Divine, one of our sisters is dead.”

Her breathing hitched just long enough for him to catch it. Perhaps the Anders woman wasn’t quite as cold as she always presented. “Líadan?” she asked as day slipped into dusk in the sky above them.

“No. Velanna. You didn’t know her, but she was a Warden all the same. In case you’re wondering, the templars are already headed back to Orlais. Apparently I’m not a mage.” He smiled ruefully. “Who knew?” He did, however, think that Astrid already knew about the templars and had probably spoken with them in the city.

Astrid sighed, in what seemed both relief and annoyance, and then removed something from her cloak. There was a spark of tinder, and then a small flame burned brightly from a torch held in her right hand. “I didn’t want it to turn out like this. But... you don’t seem to understand, and I haven’t time to make you. Let me state this to you plainly: if you do not come with me right now to Val Royeaux, I will inform the Divine of how you and Alistair not only share the same mother, but that she is also an elf.”

He stared at her, shocked that she’d threaten him and Alistair so blatantly, and yet surprised that he hadn’t seen it coming. “What’s to stop me from killing you right now?” Gunnar, still growling at his side, could easily take care of Astrid at a just slight movement of Malcolm’s hand. But he couldn’t make himself give the command. One person had already died today because of him, and he didn’t want to see another death. He also knew that Astrid had become Second Warden for a reason, and he didn’t doubt that she couldn’t defend herself well if he and Gunnar attacked without having the drop on her.

She shrugged. “Nothing. But you are a Grey Warden the same as I am. You will do what needs to be done. You will see to it that the sacrifices of your brethren were not made in vain. You are not one to turn from duty to the Order, to your country, or to your brother. Yet, one Warden died today as you tried to evade reporting your knowledge to the Chantry. Must more die? I realize you might think I have abandoned my duty as a Warden in going to the Chantry, but I have not. I am a Warden, Malcolm. The more people we have tracking down Morrigan and her Old God child, the better. You know the danger they represent. I ask you, what lives are more important in stopping the darkspawn? Templars or Wardens? The templars are to be a tool. They search and perhaps die as they close in on Morrigan. But they are not the people needed to stop the archdemons, the darkspawn, the taint. They are not important. The Grey Wardens are. Your continued refusal to cooperate has left more Wardens dead than templars you are trying to save. Have you so much pride that you cannot see what you have caused?”

No more people close to him, no more _Wardens_ , needed to die because of him and his pride. Yes, Astrid was right. That’s what it was—a sort of pride. That he believed he was the one who held the knowledge and ability to keep templars alive. And all the while, Wardens were dying. 

In the flickering light of Astrid’s torch, Malcolm saw that Velanna’s blood still stained his armor. He slowly looked up and met the other Warden’s steady gaze. “I’ll go.”


	49. Chapter 49

**Chapter 49**

“One day, while hunting in the forest, Ghilan’nain came across a hunter she did not know. At his feet lay a hawk, shot through the heart by an arrow. Ghilan’nain was filled with rage, for the hawk—along with the hare—is an animal much beloved of Andruil. Ghilan’nain demanded that the hunter make an offering to Andruil, in exchange for taking the life of one of her creatures. The hunter refused, and Ghilan’nain called upon the goddess to curse him, so that he could never again hunt and kill a living creature.

Ghilan’nain’s curse took hold, and the hunter found that he was unable to hunt. His prey would dart out of sight and his arrows would fly astray. His friends and family began to mock him for his impotence, for what use is a hunter who cannot hunt? Ashamed, the hunter swore he would find Ghilan’nain and repay her for what she had done to him.

He found Ghilan’nain while she was out on a hunt with her sisters, and lured her away from them with lies and false words. He told Ghilan’nain that he had learned his lesson and begged her to come with him, so she could teach him to make a proper offering to Andruil. Moved by his plea, Ghilan’nain followed the hunter, and when they were away from all of her sisters, the hunter turned on Ghilan’nain. He blinded her first, and then bound her as one would bind a kill fresh from the hunt. But because he was cursed, the hunter could not kill her. Instead, he left her for dead in the forest.

And Ghilan’nain prayed to the gods for help. She prayed to Elgar’nan for vengeance, to Mother Mythal to protect her, but above all she prayed to Andruil. Andruil sent her hares to Ghilan’nain and they chewed through the ropes that bound her, but Ghilan’nain was still wounded and blind, and could not find her way home. So Andruil turned her into a beautiful white deer—the first halla. And Ghilan’nain found her way back to her sisters, and led them to the hunter, who was brought to justice.

And since that day, the halla have guided the People, and have never led us astray, for they listen to the voice of Ghilan’nain.”

—from _The Tale of Ghilan’nain_ as told by Gisharel, keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish

**Líadan**

Every mage held the same look in their eyes when they saw Velanna’s body, because every mage had the same paralyzing thought— _that could have been me_. As Líadan studied Velanna’s body, searching the ravaged features for something that remained _elvhen_ , she knew that in more than one way, this could have been her. If Alistair and apparently every other person involved in the Harrowing hadn’t insisted that Líadan not be allowed to volunteer, instead having Velanna do it, the demons would have come after her. And then she would have been this abomination lying dead on the stone floor, barely recognizable as _elvhen_. Her ears were still there, elegantly pointed instead of the strange roundness of human ears. Her hair was almost all gone, only a few straggly strands left on a deformed scalp. There were no traces of the _vallaslin_ on the mottled, lumpy skin. When she finally stretched the linen cloth over Velanna’s face, wrapping it around her head and covering the entire thing, Líadan felt a surge of relief. The shroud made her look almost _elvhen_ again, a relic of what she’d once been. 

Líadan had never given much thought to the idea of becoming possessed by a demon. It wasn’t that she’d ignored the possibility, as no mage could afford to do something that stupid, but after from educating herself on awareness, she simply put it out of her mind. Sometimes, when she dreamed in the Beyond, she thought she saw demons. But they’d never really approached her, and she’d figured it was because her magic wasn’t exactly the strongest. As she stared at Velanna, she wondered if she should go through a Harrowing of her own. It would prevent something like this from happening to her when there weren’t people nearby to deal with the danger, should she fail to resist.

“We have to burn her body because of what happened,” Fiona said quietly from somewhere behind her. “We can’t bury it, but we can collect the ashes afterwards and bury those.”

“Do you think we could bury her next to her niece?” Líadan asked. It was a gesture, at least, to alleviate some of the indignity at having to suffer such a human funeral rite because of how she’d died.

“In the Wending Wood?”

“Yes. I remember where she’s buried. I could get us there. So could Nathaniel, actually.” Líadan found it strange to realize that Nathaniel had been more of a friend to Velanna than any of them had, even more than her fellow elves. In some respects, Nathaniel had been her _only_ friend. Otherwise, Velanna had been very much alone, something that Líadan had harshly pointed out only days before. _“I found a home, and you are jealous because you are alone_. _”_ The words said so mildly in Elvish had sent Velanna into the forest for a good, long sulk. Once, Líadan had felt triumph at her perceived victory, that she’d gotten Velanna to stop accusing her of being a thinblood because of how she felt about a shemlen man. But Líadan knew she’d had far longer to get used to the Wardens being her clan, to people other than just Dalish elves being her people, including people she was allowed to love. Velanna had barely been in the Wardens for a month, no, not even that long. She hadn’t had the time to acclimate, to accept that people were people, even if they weren’t Dalish, and that things they felt and did were no different than their own. Well, for the most part. There was still the whole thing with their Maker and Andraste that she didn’t quite grasp. 

Velanna’s progress, such as it was, had been abruptly halted by the pride demon. Yet even her death had been a step of sorts, as she’d been helping a shem avoid persecution from his own kind. Now, no longer would she have the benefit of a longer journey. Hers had ended, and she was in the Beyond with her niece and sister. 

“Perhaps, but we would have to wait,” Fiona replied. “We need to get to Kal’Hirol as soon as possible.”

Líadan felt a spark of resentment towards the Wardens that she hadn’t experienced since she’d first joined the Order. They couldn’t spare a couple days to see one of their own interred properly? But she fought the resentment down with the realization that her rescue from the cave-in had already delayed a highly critical mission. A rescue that she well knew might not have taken place had there been a more dutiful Warden in charge, such as Astrid. The irony that the latest delay had been partly caused by the former Second Warden didn’t escape the elf, either. “I guess we should do that.” Finished with wrapping Velanna’s body with the linen, Líadan stood and looked over at Irving. “I think that’s it.”

“We can carry her out to the pyre Teyrn Fergus arranged,” said Irving. “You probably need to go meet with the other Wardens.”

Wynne frowned slightly at the First Enchanter. “I’m sure some of the guards can help.” She had also apparently taken notice of his weariness.

Irving’s resigned nod told the other mages exactly how tired the older man was. Then he said to Líadan, “The Orlesian templars wanted to put you through a Harrowing, you know.”

“Maybe I _should_ go through one.” 

“No, you should _not_ ,” said Fiona.

At the same time, Wynne asked, “Why in all of Thedas would you want to put yourself through that?”

Líadan indicated Velanna’s body. “So what happened to her doesn’t happen to me in an uncontrolled setting. You know, where I could end up hurting people.”

“It wouldn’t.” Fiona frowned at Greagoir, probably because he was now the only representative of the Chantry left in the room. “It was an extenuating circumstance that should never happen again.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it, it won’t,” Greagoir said, accepting Fiona’s glare with remarkable aplomb. Then he looked at Líadan. “From what I’ve seen, Wardens tend to not suffer as much from the threats of demonic possession. I’m not sure why, exactly, but that’s the way it is. Velanna hadn’t been a Grey Warden long, though, had she? I don’t recall seeing her during the Blight. I’m certain I would have remembered her.”

Líadan couldn’t help the smirk. “I’m certain you would have, as she wasn’t really someone you’d forget. She hasn’t been a Warden long, though, you’re right. Hadn’t, I mean.” She hadn’t had time to accept it, either, Líadan thought again. Velanna hadn’t had time to move on from her ties with the Dalish. She hadn’t realized that you could still be Dalish while a Warden, and while living amongst the shemlen. 

“Perhaps that is why. She wasn’t as much dedicated to the role as you other Wardens are and therefore still beholden to temptations from her past life.” He shrugged. “We may never know. What I do know, however, is that you don’t need a Harrowing, Warden.”

“Maybe.” Líadan still felt some of the doubt, but was mostly convinced. Admittedly, she wasn’t exactly eager to face off with a demon.

“We need to go find out when Riordan wants to leave,” said Fiona, who then turned to Irving. “On our way out, we can ask guards to help you move Velanna.”

He nodded. “Thank you.”

Then, with Líadan trailing behind her, Fiona was out the door and heading for the last place they’d seen the Warden Commander. Guards in the hallway were dispatched to help Irving, Wynne, and Greagoir. When the two elves entered the dining area, Líadan remembered the absolute fear that had gripped her as Fiona had walked in earlier. By the grim look on the other elf’s face, she’d assumed that Fiona was going to tell them that Malcolm was dead. That the stupid shemlen ritual had killed him like everyone assumed it would. That he would have left after he promised he wouldn’t. At hearing he was alive, she’d felt relieved, and then shame quickly followed at finding out that it was Velanna who had died. 

In their absence, the other Wardens had covered the dining table with maps of both the surface of Ferelden and the Deep Roads. Riordan, Anders, and Oghren were studying them and arguing at the same time, while Nathaniel occasionally offered an opinion, but mostly stared into the distance. Malcolm wasn’t around, but neither was Alistair, so she assumed they must be meeting with Fergus and Eamon to discuss whatever it was that the rulers of countries had to discuss when together. Usually, those meetings meant Alistair and Malcolm would come out cranky, Fergus would exit slightly amused, and Eamon would be even more exasperated than usual. She doubted today would be any different, especially if Malcolm and Alistair were tired before the meeting even started.

“Tomorrow morning,” Riordan said before Fiona even had an opportunity to pose the question about when they would leave. Then looked up from his task. “After what the rest of you told me, I don’t want to take any further chances that the Mother will be able to move from where she is.”

Líadan frowned. “I don’t recall broodmothers being overly mobile. At least, I’m assuming the Mother is a broodmother, being a female and a darkspawn and, well, called the _Mother_.”

“Don’t forget, some darkspawn are apparently referring to the Architect as the Father,” said Anders.

Nathaniel drew his fingers over his face. “I was perfectly fine without remembering that.”

“You know, I took that as something of a _figurative_ meaning,” Anders said. “And now I want to replace my entire mind.”

Riordan tapped at a terminus marker on the most extensive Deep Roads map. “We’ll head to Kal’Hirol from the Vigil. It’s the closest entrance we know of, and Sigrun can find it easily from there. Better than taking our chances on attempting a shortcut from Orzammar. However, even without travel to Orzammar, I definitely want to leave as close to first light as we can.” He frowned and glanced over at Oghren. “Isn’t it well past full dark?”

“Yeah,” replied the dwarf. “Wonder what’s taking the little blighter so long.”

“We need to tend to that pyre soon. We’re already going to have to do the burial in the dark unless we do it in the morning before we leave.”

“I thought we could bury her ashes in the Wending Wood, after we get back from Kal’Hirol,” said Líadan.

“She’d appreciate that, I think,” said Riordan. “Yes, excellent idea. I wish we had the time do attend to it before, but...” he trailed off and shrugged. “Well, better that we have you alive, in my opinion, than leaving you trapped inside a cave-in without hope of rescue, and us being on schedule to deal with Kal’Hirol. Just don’t tell the First Warden I said so.”

“He’d have agreed with you,” Fiona said. “Astrid, on the other head, would not.”

Líadan rolled her eyes. “That’s because Georg is reasonable and not _Anders_.”

“Almost offended,” Anders said, and then he rose to his feet. “Well, if we don’t need to find a place to bury Velanna around here, someone should go get Malcolm. Not that I’m volunteering. Or that he should’ve been back by now. I wonder if he’s brooding.” He glanced at Nathaniel. “Not that brooding isn’t your job or anything.”

“I don’t brood.”

“Well, I could call it sulking. I figured calling it brooding would be nice. But, hey, whatever you prefer. Maybe pouting?”

“Probably the whole quiet and stoic thing gets him a lot of action,” said Oghren.

Nathaniel sat back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “I take it you’re an admirer?”

Oghren’s bushy eyebrows raced towards his hairline. “What? No! No, well, not unless—no! I mean, I like you, just not in that way.” He looked at Líadan. “Speaking about liking in that way—”

“No,” she said, interrupting him before he could continue.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I don’t need to know. Nor do I care to.”

“Care to know what?” came Alistair’s voice as he strolled into the room. 

“Funny story,” said Oghren. “There was this elf—”

“No, I don’t want to hear that story. I don’t think any of us do, actually, except for you.” Alistair managed to sound like he was giving a royal command when he cut off the dwarf. Oghren gave him a nod showing how impressed he was at the tone. Líadan expected to hear Malcolm comment about it at any moment. 

When no such comment was made, she turned to find that Alistair had walked into the room by himself. She frowned and hoped that Malcolm hadn’t been left alone with Arl Eamon. Riordan had explained earlier that Malcolm and Eamon were possibly on neutral terms that bordered on friendly, an amazing development for the two of them, since she’d never seen them on much less than hostile terms. Then again, she hadn’t been on good terms with the arl since after the Blight, right around when she’d come back from Weisshaupt with Malcolm. She didn’t imagine that if Eamon got wind of what they’d been up to— _almost_ been up to—that he’d be too happy. However, Riordan had also mentioned that Eamon was, in fact, going to resign his position as chancellor as soon as the Chantry business was over. Which, she assumed, was now. The Orlesian templars had left, though the Fereldan Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter remained, she assumed at least for the night to recover. While she strongly disliked the Orlesian templars, Greagoir and Irving had seemed decent enough, even level-headed, for the most part. She also knew that they felt the same guilt they all did about Velanna dying and wanted to remain for whatever memorial the Wardens chose. 

“Have any of you seen my brother?” Alistair asked. “Not that I don’t love all of you very, very much, but I needed to talk to Malcolm specifically.”

“I thought he was with you,” said Líadan.

“He went out to find a place to bury Velanna’s ashes,” Riordan said. “I think it was more that he needed to clear his head and that was his excuse, but whatever works. Plus, it was a task that had to be done, at least until we decided on the Wending Wood after he’d already left.”

Alistair frowned. “But it’s dark out.”

“I’m sure he’s well aware of that fact,” said Nathaniel. 

A grin spread across the king’s mouth. “You know, this is what I love about hanging around with Grey Wardens. You’re so nice to me! None of that bowing and scraping to the king stuff for you lot. No, instead it’s all dry wit and droll comments thrown everywhere.” Then the grin faded into more kingly seriousness. “I really hope this isn’t like one of those times during the Blight when he’d just take off and—”

“Pout?” said Oghren.

Riordan squinted as if trying to come up with the right word. “I’d say more of a sulk, really. At least, that’s what it was the first night I was in your company during the Blight. He went wandering into the forest on a walk or something of that nature.”

“Oh, you mean when Malcolm triggered that fire trap Morrigan and Zevran had set?” Alistair asked, and then faced the Wardens who hadn’t been present for the incident. Alistair, Líadan had noticed, relished the opportunities to tell embarrassing stories about his brother. It was a trait she’d seen among the boys of her clan when she was a child. Brothers just loved to embarrass each other, and when asked about it, they’d explain it away as some sort of guy-thing, whatever that meant. “I mean, here he was, bleeding from a gash in his arm, singed part of an eyebrow off, he’s even charred parts of his armor, and he’s glaring at Morrigan and trying to yell at her for setting him on fire. Asking her why she couldn’t use a cone of cold or something that didn’t involve flames. She accused the dog of being smarter than him—and considering that Gunnar hadn’t caught on fire, we were inclined to agree. Of course, then he muttered something about ‘blasted fire’ and passed out. Good times! Though that really doesn’t cast him in the best light, does it?”

“I can’t imagine how he lived through the Blight if he was like that all the time,” said Fiona.

“The lad just had some issues to work through,” said Oghren. “He seemed all right by the time I met him and the rest of you in Orzammar.”

Riordan nodded. “For the most part.”

“Oh, but that little brouhaha you all had down in the Deep Roads was something _else_. That’s about when I decided that I wanted to become a Warden, just to get in on that kind of action. I mean, there was smiting, there was sodding biting, all of it way better than a bloody half-price for a flagon night Tapster’s that’s for sure.” Oghren smiled in Líadan’s direction. “Remember that? You were doing the biting, after all.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes.” However, she wasn’t going to offer any of these people any more than that. They didn’t need to know about how she’d bitten and pushed Malcolm in the Deep Roads when he’d tried to keep her from alerting the darkspawn by yelling at Riordan for killing Ruck. And then how, afterward, Alistair had hit her with a small, focused smite because she’d laced her push with lightning. She hadn’t exactly done that part on _purpose_. It’d just... happened. Her cheeks started to blush at memory of how everyone had been angry with her during the fallout. Well, aside from the ever-patient Riordan and the understanding Leliana. Malcolm had just made a good target at the time because he was someone who wouldn’t give up and leave if she pushed. 

Oghren leaned his elbow on the table, as if engaging in an incredibly friendly conversation. “Tell me, was that the first time you hit the lad with lightning?”

Líadan sighed. “Could we please talk about something else?”

“Oh, no, no, I like this topic,” said Anders. “Way better than how morose it was before. Besides, it’s nice to see how you two started out. Sparks from the beginning, you say?”

“How clever,” said Nathaniel.

“Didn’t take me very long to think of that one,” Anders replied with a smirk.

“And I’m so very proud.”

“I’m going to go see about the pyre,” Líadan said, wanting to escape any further reminiscing or teasing more than anything else. She didn’t particularly want to think about the time when Malcolm had been _with_ Morrigan. Not that she didn’t acknowledge that the relationship had happened, but she didn’t really want to dwell on it, either. Especially not now, when she and Malcolm had left things both resolved and incredibly _unresolved_ that morning. She’d told him the truth afterward, that she certainly hadn’t planned on what had nearly happened when she’d stopped by. She really had only wanted to warn him about Fiona. Except when she had actually stepped the room, it had felt entirely natural to stand next to him, and it things just continued on their own momentum from there. Once it had started, she hadn’t been much inclined to stop it. They’d talked things out as much as they could, and they’d even tried to avoid the issue entirely. It hadn’t worked, but they’d at least attempted it. 

When she stood next to him, his scent had reminded her of home, of something being right. So instead of yet again trying to convince themselves that they shouldn’t even bother trying or trying to make themselves believe that nothing existed between them, she’d kissed him. And then some. Unexpected, but judging by how things had progressed, not unwelcome by either party. Then there’d been Oghren and his shouting at the door and everything had crashed to a screeching halt. 

Just for that, Líadan made sure to shoot the dwarf a glare before she turned to leave the dining room. He deserved it, and definitely deserved to lose whatever coin he’d lose in his little pool.

Oghren merely grinned in the face of her glare. Riordan gave her a slight nod, acknowledging what she was doing. Then he said, “We’ll be along shortly. We should have some sort of memorial tonight, because I’m not sure when we’ll get to it otherwise.” His expression remained neutral, but his eyes betrayed a hint of concern. “Hopefully Malcolm will be back by the time it’s ready. But if he hasn’t, we’ll still have it. There’s no time to waste and we all need rest.” He gave her a pointed look. “And you’re still recovering from an injury.”

She rolled her eyes. “I feel fine.” It wasn’t a lie—she did feel fine. Great, even. Between the healing abilities of Anders, Wynne, and Fiona, she hadn’t felt this well in a long time. She figured it’d factored into the certain actions she’d found herself taking that morning, too. So if they wanted her to _rest_ , perhaps they shouldn’t have done such a good job with the healing.

“You’ll need at least another full night’s sleep and to avoid combat for another day before I’ll be satisfied with your progress,” said Anders. “Not that I don’t trust my own work, but you’ve got a nasty habit of breaking the things I fix. As long as you watch yourself, which I’m sure you won’t do unless we force you to, you’ll be fine to go to Kal’Hirol.” He glanced at Riordan. “That’s assuming she’s going. Who _is_ going, anyway?”

Riordan started rolling up the maps, with Oghren pitching in to help. “Mostly everyone, honestly, since it sounds like this Mother has a sizable force to contend with. I haven’t decided yet if I’ll go myself or if I’ll have Malcolm take you all down there. We’ll leave a couple Wardens topside no matter what in order to keep tabs on new developments. I don’t want our presence entirely gone from the surface for the duration of the mission.”

Nathaniel acted like he wanted to say something, but pressed his lips together and kept his silence. Líadan assumed it was most likely a question on allowing Malcolm to lead another mission so soon, an objection based on the actions he’d taken in Drake’s Fall or the Harrowing or both. While Líadan could see the areas where Malcolm hadn’t used the best judgement, between letting Alistair come with them to staying up in the mountains to dig her out of the cave-in, she also had benefitted from one of those decisions. It compromised her objectivity as she tried to understand where Nathaniel might be coming from. Then again, Malcolm wasn’t infallible, as she had long known, and bound to make mistakes. What mattered was if he’d learned from them and not make the same ones. Usually he did, but this latest escapade’s outcome in terms of learning to lead remained to be seen.

“Sounds fair,” said Oghren. “Throw him back into the field, I say. Little blighter has to learn somehow. What’s that saying you surfacers have? Something about getting back on a bronto after it bucks you off? Never really paid much attention to that one aside from... other meanings, if you know what I’m saying. Heh. Bucking the bronto.”

“Getting back into the saddle if you get thrown, Oghren,” said Nathaniel. “And yes, perhaps that analogy—without anything from your point of view added—could apply here.”

“Pyre,” said Líadan. She didn’t want to stick around as people possibly debated whether or not actions someone had taken that’d prevented her death had been the right ones to take. Clearly she was biased on the matter, but still. She was alive and grateful for that fact and really didn’t want to be dead. Especially dying in that manner, trapped in the cave-in like she’d been. Though without Anders present and how they’d drilled that hole into the pile of rocks in order to talk with her, she would’ve bled out from the wound in her leg anyway. And that would’ve been better than dying from thirst and starvation in pitch black darkness of the Deep Roads. 

Of course, in the end, they’d all die there, unless they fell in battle. Riordan would be going within the year. Even now she could tell that his nightmares had started to return. Sometimes, she could hear the screams through the walls. They had spoken about them back at the Vigil, the morning before she had left with the others for Amaranthine and Highever. He hadn’t been able to tell as clearly during the Blight since they’d all suffered dreams caused by the archdemon. Líadan and the other Wardens who’d Joined during the Blight still suffered more dreams than other Wardens, so it was hard for her to compare, as well. But Riordan had said he was certain that his Calling was drawing ever closer, and that he needed his senior Fereldan Wardens to be at their best when his time came. They’d spoken a bit more about what was going on with her, but that had mostly been Riordan talking and her sometimes listening. He reminded her of Marethari at times, both in good ways and in bad. 

She wasn’t sure about the other Wardens, but personally she wasn’t ready for him to take his Calling yet. There wasn’t anyone ready to replace him in his role as Warden Commander. Malcolm had too many issues of his own to work out, especially with the ongoing problem of Morrigan and him leaving to search for her once this business with Kal’Hirol was finished. She had no intention of trying to step into the role, nor did she want to. Oghren, if sober, could do it, except that the man was almost never sober. Nathaniel hadn’t been a Warden long enough, and Fiona wasn’t a native of Ferelden—and they needed a native, she realized. Riordan was their best option right now, so he would just have to stay alive for the time being, and hope that his Calling didn’t become too strong too quickly and overwhelm him. Things were already overwhelming enough for all of them.

Outside, she found Greagoir and Irving waiting by the pyre with Fergus and Eamon. Torches set in measured spaces along the walls provided a flickering light to the castle’s yard. The half-light made Velanna’s shrouded body the reverse-silhouette of an elf, but at least she looked _elvhen_ now, even though she wouldn’t receive a proper burial. Not exactly. 

Eamon frowned when he saw Líadan. “What?” she asked, irritated that he would start in on her at a time like this. Or at all, really, considering that Fergus had told her he’d spoken to the arl about how he treated her at Highever. Her suspicion was confirmed when Fergus shot Eamon a dirty look for his frown.

“Where’s Malcolm?” asked the arl.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not his keeper.” Though part of her wanted to know where Malcolm had gone off to as badly as Eamon did. She had things to discuss with him. More importantly, she wanted to know how he was _really_ doing after the events of the Harrowing from that day. It also wasn’t like him to miss something like this, as he considered closure to be important, along with paying respects to the dead. However, she didn’t feel much motivated to be nice to Eamon. Certainly not if he was going to glare at her straight away. She crossed her arms and returned the favor.

“I had assumed he was with you,” said Eamon.

“Well, he isn’t. And he isn’t _always_ with me.”

“Sometimes I think he might as well be,” Fergus said under his breath.

Líadan shifted her glare from Eamon to Fergus. He smirked at her, and even though they weren’t brothers by blood, he reminded her of Malcolm.

“Eamon, he went to go find a suitable burial place for Velanna’s ashes,” said Alistair as he walked into the yard. Then he turned to Riordan, who had in walked next to him. “When was it that he went?”

“A little before sundown.”

Fergus’ look of mild amusement disappeared. “He should be back by now.” He sighed. “Unless he’s in a mood, and then there’s no telling when he’ll return. I assumed he’d grown out of that stage, though. Did he have Gunnar with him?”

“Yes,” said Anders, strolling in with the rest of the Wardens now crowding into the yard.

“I assume he knows the grounds well?” asked Nathaniel. “Granted, he isn’t a hunter or tracker, but he did grow up here. He certainly knew enough hiding places as a boy to stay away from Delilah.”

The teyrn nodded, but it was slow and reluctant. He was mostly convinced, it seemed, but something still nagged at him. “He does. I suppose he’s fine.” His smile seemed forced as he tried to reassure them. “If he isn’t back once dinner is over, perhaps that’s when we should start to worry.”

Fergus looked as unconvinced as Líadan felt. In an effort to purge the worry building up in the back of her mind, she turned to Riordan. “We should probably get this going. There isn’t really anything that goes along with it, since this isn’t a real memorial. Not for her, anyway, since we’ll be burying her ashes in the Wending Wood.”

“With an oaken staff?” asked Anders. “I remember that, from before.”

Líadan nodded. “Yes. And a cedar branch, if we can even find one.”

“Why do you bury your dead with such things?” asked Nathaniel.

She considered her answer for a moment, not sure if she wanted to share more of her religion with these people. Then she remembered that most of them were her clan now, as much as her former clan had once been. They wouldn’t laugh at her beliefs and they wouldn’t mock them. Nathaniel’s question had been pure curiosity and held no disrespect. Besides, not even all of the other Wardens were of the primarily human Andrastian religion. The dwarves, Oghren and Sigrun, believed in their Ancestors and the Stone. “One of the elven gods, Fen’Harel, tricked the other gods into being locked up in a prison and unable to walk amongst their people any longer. There used to be two gods who helped the dead in their final journey—Dirthamen, who counseled the dead with his wisdom, and Falon’Din, who guided the dead to the Beyond. But now we are without them. So when we bury our dead, we give them an oaken staff to keep them from faltering on their paths, and a cedar branch to scatter the ravens called Fear and Deceit, who were once servants of Dirthamen, but now haven’t a master.”

“I think she could use that help,” Nathaniel said. “So, no need for a ceremony now, then, right? Somehow I don’t think she’d quite appreciate anything that even approaches similarity to our human religion.”

“I suppose not.”

“Please allow me to light the pyre,” Greagoir said, speaking up for the first time since anyone had joined him and Irving in the yard.

After he exchanged glances with his Wardens, Riordan nodded permission to the templar. Greagoir, a man who had overseen far too many funerals, expertly lit the pyre. After a few minutes, Irving asked that the other mages help reduce the body to ashes quickly. As they did, Líadan was reminded of what they’d done for the ghoul-templar in the Deep Roads. Strange, that Velanna would meet her end in a similar way. Again, Líadan remembered what she’d said to Velanna and truly hoped that the woman was no longer alone. Even though Velanna had been an infuriating _arvhen’din_ —an exile—she didn’t deserve exile in death. “ _Ma darevas_ ,” she whispered quietly enough that no one else would hear, except perhaps Fiona. “ _Na nan halam. Sahlin in uthenera na revas._ ” _You are free. Your vengeance has ended. Now in waking sleep is your freedom._

The First Enchanter produced a small enchanted box, and with deft hands that belied his age, gathered the ashes and sealed them away. Then he handed the box over to Riordan for safekeeping, and the group returned to the castle, leaving the dismantling of the pyre to soldiers appointed to the task. Dinner was quiet, and bordered on somber. The pyre had brought some closure, but not quite enough. Fergus seemed nervous, occasionally casting looks towards the doors, as if he expected someone to walk in at any moment. Líadan knew the teyrn expected Malcolm. They all did, even if they didn’t say it. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for Malcolm to disappear for a few hours, as it was his way of sorting out himself and his thoughts. But Anders explained that Malcolm had told them he’d be back by nightfall, and he’d yet to show. The growing nervousness of Fergus, and then Eamon and Alistair, didn’t help her feel any better about it. Instead, it served to draw her own worry forward, to where she felt trapped and wanted to run out and track him down just so it would stop. She didn’t. Instead, she remained with the other Wardens, going over plans that she half paid attention to until Riordan told them all to get some rest.

She couldn’t. Líadan didn’t even bother. She headed straight for the main doors, practically running into Fergus on the way. He didn’t seem angry at her, though, and instead flashed her a small, yet disarming smile. “You, too?”

“I don’t know what—”

“Of course you don’t.” He rolled his eyes at her shocked expression. “What? Did you forget that I was _with_ Oghren this morning outside Malcolm’s door?” His smile remained despite the intensity of her glare. He extended an arm toward her, and then gestured toward the doors. “Walk with me on the battlements while we both wait. We might as well keep each other company. Oghren’s keeping Alistair occupied for the time being, though I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, considering he found some of Highever’s best ale.”

Líadan hesitated for a moment, and then she remembered that this was Malcolm’s foster brother. A trusted friend who held no guile in his earnest eyes. “It would be better than him babbling incessantly in order to cover his worry,” she said, and then walked next to Fergus as he led the way to the battlements. 

“Yes, a trait that my father once told me was a particularly irritating Theirin one. They babble, but you can’t help liking them, even when you want to punch them in the face.” Fergus cocked his head to the side. “Or was it when you were punching them in the face? Ah well, same difference. I suppose that’s why Calenhad’s line has remained on the Ferelden throne for so long. We just can’t seem to hate them.”

“I thought I hated him once,” she found herself saying. 

“Changed your mind, did he?”

She shrugged. “I guess. Or I never really hated him in the first place and he just made me realize it.”

Fergus turned toward her for a moment and gave her a curious look. It seemed as if he was going to ask her one of those prying questions about her and Malcolm that she dreaded hearing from either of his brothers. She couldn’t very well tell either of _them_ the answer when she hadn’t yet told Malcolm. He deserved to know first, and, she realized, in a language that he could actually understand. But Fergus didn’t ask the question she could see in his eyes. Instead, he gave her a short nod with a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “They tend to do that. Really knocks their enemies for a loop, I’ll tell you that much.”

The battlements were cold, as the wind had picked up as night fell, and it currently whipped across the tops of the walls while carrying the frigid embrace of a rapidly nearing winter. Líadan pulled her hood up and wrapped her woolen cloak closer to her body to keep out the chill. They walked together for time, Fergus doing most of the talking, speaking of mundane things that did what they could to chase away the worry. But once Líadan marked an hour of walking, she couldn’t take it any longer, and she stopped in her tracks. “Something is wrong. I’m sure of it. Everything just feels _wrong_.”

Fergus glanced over the crenellations and out at the darkened forests below. “He could just be out moping or thinking and lost track of time.” Even as he said the words, he looked entirely unconvinced of their veracity.

Her gaze followed the teyrn’s, but she was reluctant to repeat what she’d been reminding herself of for hours. Malcolm had told her, promised her, that he wouldn’t leave. So for him not to say anything and be gone this long couldn’t be good. At the same time, he’d taken Gunnar, worn armor, and carried weapons, so he couldn’t have been easily hurt if accosted. They hadn’t felt any darkspawn, so it wasn’t like he could’ve been overwhelmed by a surprise darkspawn attack. But there were dangers out there other than darkspawn and bandits and even the odd assassin. It could be that he’d fallen and broken a leg, and Gunnar was refusing to leave him. Yet, it didn’t help explain the twisting concern wrenching at her gut. She’d had this feeling before, back in the Brecilian Forest, right before she and Tamlen went into the ruins. After that, her entire life had changed. Was it happening again, just when she’d started to accept it for what it was?

Fergus sighed, and then turned to her. “You’re right. Something’s wrong. I’m going to start sending out search parties.” As they started walking back to the castle, he put a friendly arm across her shoulders and pulled her close to his side. “You can ride with my party. We’ll find him, I promise.”

Líadan gained a small amount of comfort from Fergus’ gesture and words, realizing that he was as much brother to her as Alistair was. That even beyond Malcolm, beyond the Wardens, she had family in people like Fergus. She wished Velanna had been able to see this sort of thing while she had been alive. Because then, she could have truly lived, even after she’d lost her clan and family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish Translations:
> 
> -Líadan: “Ma darevas. Na nan halam. Sahlin, in uthenera na revas.”  
> “You are free. Your vengeance has ended. Now, in waking sleep is your freedom.”


	50. Chapter 50

**Chapter 50**

“Long ago, when time itself was young, the only things in existence were the sun and the land. The sun, curious about the land, bowed his head close to her body, and Elgar’nan was born in the place where they touched. The sun and the land loved Elgar’nan greatly, for he was beautiful and clever. As a gift to Elgar’nan, the land brought forth great birds and beasts of sky and forest, and all manner of wonderful green things. Elgar’nan loved his mother’s gifts and praised them highly and walked amongst them often.

The sun, looking down upon the fruitful land, saw the joy that Elgar’nan took in her works and grew jealous. Out of spite, he shone his face full upon all the creatures the earth had created, and burned them all to ashes. The land cracked and split from bitterness and pain, and cried salt tears for the loss of all she had wrought. The pool of tears cried for the land became the ocean, and the cracks in her body the first rivers and streams.

Elgar’nan was furious at what his father had done and vowed vengeance. He lifted himself into sky and wrestled the sun, determined to defeat him. They fought for an eternity, and eventually the sun grew weak, while Elgar’nan’s rage was unabated. Eventually Elgar’nan threw the sun down from the sky and buried him in a deep abyss created by the land’s sorrow. With the sun gone, the world was covered in shadow, and all that remained in the sky were the reminders of Elgar’nan’s battle with his father—drops of the sun’s lifeblood, which twinkled and shimmered in the darkness.”

—from _The Tale of Elgar’nan and the Sun_ , as told by Gisharel, keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish

**Líadan**

When dawn arrived, Malcolm had still not returned home. Líadan hadn’t bothered to secure permission from Riordan before she joined Fergus and his search party. She figured that as long as she showed up at Highever Castle’s yard by first light, she wouldn’t be in much trouble. The sun had barely started making itself known when her search party clattered into the yard, tired and fruitless. Yet even as she and Fergus and the three other soldiers had returned, two other parties had headed through the barbican to begin their own search. Though it was barely first light, the castle grounds held none of its typical quiet for that time of day. Instead, it was a hub of intense, purposeful activity. Already feeling defeated and frustrated, Líadan slid off her horse and handed the reins to a waiting squire before heading into the castle.

She and Fergus weren’t surprised to find the dining hall empty and their appetites not particularly cooperative. After they forced down some bread and cheese that tasted far too much like sawdust, a servant told them that the Warden Commander was waiting for Líadan in the main hall. Fergus accompanied her, even though his chattiness had died down as the search had continued without any sign of Malcolm, which wore down his ability to project cheerful optimism. He claimed it was because he needed to see Riordan, but she figured it was partly to defend her choice to stay up and help with the search instead of rest and recover as she’d been ordered to do.

They found Riordan in the middle of the main hall, his expression dark and his arms crossed defensively over his chest, engaged in an argument with Eamon. “The situation in Kal’Hirol is too dire. You will have to rely on whatever soldiers the Crown can muster to conduct the search.”

“But this is one of your own—” Eamon started saying.

Riordan held up a hand and interrupted him. “Would you agree that the safety of Ferelden and Thedas as a whole is more important than a few extra people to help conduct a search for one missing man?”

Fergus cleared his throat, which caused both men to turn towards the newcomers.

“You haven’t slept,” Riordan said after he studied Líadan for a moment.

“No.”

“So you _were_ out searching all night instead of getting the rest you need in order to recover.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway.” Líadan set her shoulders and readied for an argument. If Riordan wanted to get this _Anders_ about the situation then she wouldn’t have a problem acting as Dalish as possible in return. “So I did something useful instead of laying there awake all night.”

“You could have gone to one of the other mages and have them put you to sleep. Or taken a sleeping draught. Even just staying in and resting would have been better than exhausting yourself by staying out in the forests all night.”

“Malcolm is missing,” she said slowly, reminding Riordan of exactly why she wanted to search and why she really hadn’t wanted to sleep, even when there were methods to make sure she did. “As in, gone.”

Riordan sighed, and Líadan saw troubled pain pass through the older man’s eyes. “I know,” he said, his voice remarkably quiet compared to the sternness from before. “I have one Warden missing already, so I don’t need another, namely you, out of commission.”

“I’m fine. Really.” She appreciated the concern, and though he used terms that gave the impression he might think of her as only a tool, she knew he had a soft spot for his Wardens. He preferred to keep them alive because they were also people, not just because they were Grey Wardens. 

“You’re exhausted is what you are,” said Wynne as she stepped through the opened main doors. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Maybe.” She might have fallen asleep a few times in the saddle, but she wasn’t going to admit to it, not to Wynne or anyone else standing in Highever’s main hall.

“It’s true, then? You’ve found no sign of him?” Riordan asked.

Líadan felt her anger slip away and she tried to keep hold of it. Anger was better than the gnawing fear growing in her mind and shouting that Malcolm was probably dead. Dead, and they were just searching for a body now. It was either that or he’d gone to search for Morrigan without having told anyone goodbye. But that option didn’t make sense. Even if he didn’t verbally say something to anyone, he would’ve left a note. A search of the castle hadn’t turned up said note. That, and his pack and other belongings were still in his room. He’d left with just his armor, flask, sword, and Gunnar. If he’d been attacked then Gunnar would’ve defended him to the death if need be. Her heart dropped even more at the thought. They weren’t just looking for one body, they were looking for two. _No_ , she told herself. _Not bodies. Not yet_. “Nothing.”

“I’d like to try and find some hounds,” said Fergus. “Rendon Howe killed every dog we had in our kennels and I’ve yet to do anything to replace them. I find myself wishing I had, as it will be a day or so before we can have hounds up here to help track. And by then, I’m not sure how much good dogs will be. I really don’t like the look of the weather off the coast, and if it storms, we’ll lose our ability to track him at all.”

“I can ready the rest of the Royal Guard and have the majority of them out searching,” said Eamon, looking none too pleased at the prospect. Apparently he didn’t like the idea of leaving the king unguarded while searching for the wayward prince.

Riordan’s frown deepened and he looked from the arl to Fergus. “Do you think he’s gone off on his own?”

“While part of me hopes he has—because then he’s far less likely to be dead and that would mean I can yell at him when he comes back—the other part of me really doesn’t think so. He didn’t tell anyone and he didn’t leave any notes. There’s just... there’s too much in the air right now for him to just bail. This would be a big deal, even for him. I don’t think he would leave this abruptly.” Fergus’ eyes flicked over towards the doors, where the rest of the Wardens except for Fiona were walking into the hall carrying packs and weapons. Then he looked back to Riordan. “You’re still leaving?”

“We have to. The problem at Kal’Hirol is too great for us to delay any further. I discussed the matter with Eamon, and the Crown can handle the search while the Wardens go into the Deep Roads.” As he spoke, his tone was firm, though some of his reluctance came through. Yet, his statement revealed what Eamon and Riordan had been arguing about when Líadan and Fergus had walked in. The Warden Commander held the teyrn’s gaze without looking away at all.  While Riordan would perform to his duty, Líadan could see that he’d rather stay and search. She understood that he had to go and was grateful that she didn’t have to do the same.

After a long look at Riordan, Fergus nodded. “I understand. Hopefully he’ll turn up. Otherwise...” he trailed off, the other options far better left unsaid. “Are you all going to be in the Deep Roads?”

“I’ll be staying topside for a variety of reasons, but Fiona will be taking the rest of the experienced Wardens to Kal’Hirol, yes.”

“Does Fiona know this?” Líadan asked. She’d assumed that Fiona would be allowed to stay either at the Vigil or Highever like her and possibly help with the search.

“It was her recommendation.” Riordan looked like he was going to add something else, but his eyes shifted to Eamon and Fergus, and he kept the extra information to himself. 

“Her rec... really?” She reflexively looked at the doors and in what she gathered would be Fiona’s direction. How could she just volunteer to go to Kal’Hirol when her son was missing and possibly dead? Líadan had thought she’d known the older elven woman, that Fiona had done what she had to do when Malcolm and Alistair were infants when she’d given them to their father to raise. But if she could so easily turn aside now when she had a chance to actively participate, Líadan couldn’t see how she hadn’t misjudged her.

Riordan studied her for a moment, and then said, “You are going to Kal’Hirol as well. You know this, yes?”

She stared at him in complete disbelief. He _knew_. He knew how she felt. They’d spoken about it before, even though she hadn’t wanted to. And now he was going to try to force her to walk away? Líadan opened her mouth to say something, and when nothing came out, she shut it.

He heaved a weary sigh. “And, obviously, you assumed otherwise.”

“I’m staying here,” Líadan said, trying to ignore the plaintive ‘please don’t make this difficult’ look in Riordan’s eyes. “I need to help search.”

“You need to go to Kal’Hirol with the other experienced Wardens.” The set to Riordan’s jaw changed along with the look in his eye. He’d summoned on the inner steel that seemed to dwell in every Warden, the steel they relied on to do tasks that non-Wardens could never bring themselves to do. Once a Warden got that look, there was little another person could to do sway their course. Riordan had gone from understanding mentor to resolute Warden Commander in the face of her refusal. “You are a Warden, and you are needed to help deal with a broodmother. This isn’t negotiable, Líadan. I realize that you would choose to stay given the choice, but the choice isn’t yours to make.”

“We’ll have messengers going back and forth between Highever and the Vigil every day,” said Fergus as Líadan and Riordan continued to stare each other down.

“It isn’t like they’d be able to reach us in the Deep Roads,” Líadan said. “I’m a Dalish hunter. I can track him.”

“Had you been able to track him, you would have last night. But you did not.” Riordan lifted his eyebrows in inquiry. “Did you?”

He had a point, as reluctant as she was to admit it. “No, I didn’t.”

“I was out looking last night as well,” Nathaniel said from where he leaned against a wall. “I couldn’t find anything, either. We’re going to have to leave it to the Crown’s trackers and the hounds.”

Líadan scowled. Nathaniel was an exceptional tracker, far better than she was, and better than many of the elves of her former clan. If he couldn’t find any trace... she roughly pushed away the thought. There was someone better. There was always someone better, and that person would be able to find out what happened. As Líadan sought a better justification for why she should stay and help with the search, her eyes roved the wide expanse of the stone floor, not wanting to meet the looks of her fellow Wardens. She supposed they were as resigned to going to Kal’Hirol as Nathaniel and Riordan, and even Fiona. At some point during the previous night, someone had cleaned up the blood that’d stained the floor. In fact, it looked like the permanently stained stones had even been replaced. That quickly, the evidence of their mistakes had been erased from the view of outsiders. But they would all carry the scars on the inside. They all did.

The door opened to admit the last of the Wardens who were staying at the castle. Fiona strode in quietly, her face pale and drawn. Líadan felt a pang of sadness as she realized that Fiona hadn’t slept either, and that despite the _recommendation_ she’d made to Riordan, she was troubled. But the fact remained that the other elven woman had made the recommendation in the first place, and had meant it, as evidenced by the pack slung on her back. “It didn’t work,” Fiona said to Riordan when he turned to see who’d walked in the door.

The Warden Commander muttered something sharply in Orlesian. 

Fiona arched an eyebrow. “I’m not sure if I would have put it quite so crudely, but yes. I feel the same way.”

“About what?” asked Anders.

“We tried to see if we could do anything with the ring Malcolm got from Morrigan to try and find him. It didn’t do anything,” Riordan said. “Not that we could’ve expected much, but it had to be attempted.”

Líadan didn’t bother pointing out that Malcolm needed to be wearing the ring and Morrigan needed to be doing whatever it was Morrigan did for it to work. It was apparent that trying to use the ring was a last-ditch effort at finding him, and one that hadn’t worked. Either that, or he was dead, and that would make the ring not work, too. “I could do more by remaining here. I should stay.”

“You are a Grey Warden,” said Fiona. “You’re one of the only ones, as a Warden, who can help deal with the Mother. You’re one of a small number of people singularly qualified for the task. Here in Highever, there’s nothing you can do for Malcolm that cannot be done by other people. Here, you are redundant, while in the Deep Roads, you are not. It will give you something constructive to do.”

“Staying and searching isn’t an empty task!”

“No? Then you did find a trail last night? You found evidence that will lead you to him? Or are you exhausted and frustrated and haven’t anything to show for it?” When Líadan didn’t reply, Fiona continued, “In the end, doing something productive is far better for everyone.”

“Rather than doing nothing? Because it wouldn’t be _nothing_. Trying to track him down isn’t _nothing_. You should—”

“Perhaps this conversation should end now,” said Riordan, stepping in between the two women and breaking their line of sight. “This is not the time and is certainly not the place. We’ve a two day ride to the Vigil, and Sigrun said it will take another two days to get to Kal’Hirol through the Deep Roads. There’s no time to waste on arguments. The horses are saddled and ready. It’s time to leave, and we are all leaving.” He met Líadan’s glare without flinching. She was the first one to break eye contact. Then the Warden Commander nodded toward the others and headed out the door. 

The rest of the Wardens followed, with some casting wary, sympathetic glances in Líadan’s direction before hastily finding something else to look at. Fiona lagged behind the rest of the group, and it wasn’t until the last of them had gone through the doors that she turned to Líadan. “We aren’t giving up. I want you to know that.”

“That’s what it seems like to me. I honestly thought that you, of all people, would understand. ” Líadan forced her fingers to unclench from fists at her sides while she held back the rest of what she wanted to say. To make sure she didn’t say it, she turned and walked out into the hall with her back straight and shoulders set. Not more than a few seconds had gone by before she heard Fiona’s footsteps trailing her, but the other mage said nothing more.

One of the other Wardens had retrieved her pack and already lashed it to her horse. She kept her silence as they rode out of the yard of Highever Castle and left behind the parties of men and women searching for Malcolm. Líadan took note that Wynne stayed behind, and jealousy darkened the elf’s already bleak mood. As her group put distance between themselves and Highever, Líadan felt more and more like she was abandoning Malcolm. Not even days after he’d chosen to forgo this very same mission in order to stay and help retrieve her from a cave-in, she was riding away from the area where he’d gone missing. Abandoning him for the sake of the same duty he’d put aside for her. 

And yet, she continued riding toward the Vigil with the other Wardens and named not a single additional protest. They made good time on their quiet ride, and were able to set up camp only a half-day’s ride from the Vigil. Depending on how travel went the next day, they could be in the Deep Roads by early afternoon. Riordan assigned pairs for watches, but gave himself a double watch and Líadan no watch at all. When she complained, he pointed out that she hadn’t slept the day before and technically was still recovering from the injuries she’d sustained at Drake’s Fall. Anders piped up his support of her taking the night off from watch and Líadan, conceding defeat, dropped her protests. It didn’t stop her from glaring, however, or from the rest of the Wardens being cautious in mind and mouth around her. 

To her great embarrassment, Líadan practically fell asleep while still eating near the fire. She caught the bowl an inch before it hit the ground, shoveled down the rest of her food, and fled to the confines of her tent. She’d wanted to sleep under the stars, but the temperature wouldn’t allow it. Plus, it would completely give away her plan. She had to sleep, yes, but she didn’t have to sleep the entire night. After a few hours, she could slip away into the forest and return to Highever to track Malcolm. Not only did it worry her that he had yet to turn up, but neither had Gunnar. The circumstance pointed toward either both of them being dead or Malcolm having left voluntarily. 

He’d told her he wouldn’t leave. She had believed him.

Líadan had agreed to taking the risk of being with him, leapt for the next step with him, and now he was gone. But with the evidence left behind, everything pointed to him either being dead or having disappeared voluntarily. Malcolm didn’t go anywhere without Gunnar. He’d even gone so far as to take the mabari all the way with him to Weisshaupt, and that was _after_ the wardog had been at his side during the entirety of the Blight. Logically, they would have found Gunnar’s body if Malcolm had been taken anywhere against his will. The same result would occur if Malcolm had been killed. So it followed that Malcolm might not have disagreed with leaving. That he might have done exactly what he said he wouldn’t and just _left_. While she didn’t want him dead by any means, she didn’t really relish the idea that he’d broken his word to her that soon, or at all.

Or he could be injured and needing help, like she had been. Whether or not he’d left on purpose, she owed it to him to search for him. What she did once she found him, depending on the circumstances of his disappearance, remained to be seen. But she would look, sod this Grey Warden duty. She’d given up enough for it—namely, her entire life. She wasn’t completely running away, as she planned on returning. It wasn’t like she had a choice, anyway, with the taint. The Wardens had provided a clan for her when death had threatened to take away the one she’d grown up in. But right now, a member of that clan was missing, and if there was any chance that he was still alive and needed help, she would look for him. This wouldn’t be like what happened with Tamlen. Malcolm wasn’t a lost cause, and she wouldn’t let someone who meant that much to her disappear again.

Líadan woke in a panic, worried that she’d slept through the night. A peek out of the tent flap told her that the light filtering through the light material was the full moon and not dawn. She worked quickly and silently, arranging her belongings in the pack so they wouldn’t shift and rattle. She hadn’t been able to find anything suitable to tie around the horse’s hooves to dampen their sound, so she’d have to do what she could to stay on soft ground. Armed with daggers and her pack secure, Líadan slipped out the back of her tent and directly into the darkness of the surrounding forest. As she headed for where the horses were on their tie lines, she saw the profiles of Fiona and Nathaniel near the fire. She scowled. That meant she’d have to make sure to be extra quiet because of Fiona’s elven hearing. 

Once she reached the horses, she made sure to touch each of them so they knew she was there. They were like the halla—they couldn’t see right behind them, so they had a tendency to kick when caught by surprise. She found the horse she’d ridden during the day. The gelding would be her best bet on one that wouldn’t make noise when she led it away from the others, since he was somewhat familiar with her. If she had a preference, she would’ve left on foot and guaranteed herself the silence, but it would take her too long to return to Highever like that. She put one of the saddles over her shoulder, planning on saddling the horse once they were far enough away from the camp for the noise to be overlooked. Then she released the horse and started leading him into the trees. But the horse caught on fast that he was being separated from the other horses, and nickered in their direction.

To Líadan, the sound was as good as a shout that she was trying to leave. She froze, hiding her body as much behind the large animal as she could. Nathaniel didn’t move, but Fiona’s head turned and peered in the direction of the horses. The older elf said something to Nathaniel, who got up and walked in the opposite direction, toward the trees behind Líadan’s tent. After another hard stare in the direction of the horses, Fiona rose to her feet and strode straight for where Líadan stood with her freed horse.

Damn.

She wanted to glare at the horse, but she couldn’t fault him for wanting to stay with the other horses. After all, she was doing kind of the same thing. Her hope held out for another second as Fiona continued walking without saying anything. But once the older elf reached the shadows where the horses were picketed, she looked directly at Líadan. “You might as well put that poor horse back on his tie line. Nathaniel might not be able to see you, but I can.”

“It’s not—”

“It’s _exactly_ what it looks like. Did you really think we didn’t know you’d try to leave? You do have a history of this sort of thing.”

Líadan sighed and tied the horse back up. “I had to.”

“I know.”

The simple answer quelled the anger threatening to burst from the younger woman and kept her from shouting. “I feel like I’m abandoning him.” While she didn’t say it outright, her tone carried the additional accusation of _and you should feel the same._

Fiona glanced eastward. She’d caught the unspoken admonition. “Maybe we are.” 

“Then—”

“We join the search for him after Kal’Hirol.” A certain desperation surfaced briefly in Fiona’s eyes, barely long enough for Líadan to catch. “I’m not sure if it’s what he would do, but I hope he will understand.”

Líadan remembered how Fiona had ranted while working with Wynne to finish the healing Anders had started in Drake’s Fall. The depth of Fiona’s anger at both Malcolm and Alistair had surprised her enough for her to seek out Malcolm the next morning to warn him. That, of course, hadn’t gone exactly as planned. She’d figured the anger had mostly evaporated because of all the events surrounding the Harrowing, but she could have been wrong. It’d been known to happen before. “Are you not looking for him right now because you’re angry with him?”

“No. I—” Fiona broke off and her hand went to her chest out of surprise. The desperation crept back into her eyes and her voice lowered again in volume. “You really think that of me?”

“Not entirely, no. I just wasn’t sure. I know I was exhausted the night we got back from Drake’s Fall, but I _heard_ you. You can’t deny that you were angry at them both.”

“Just because I was angry with them doesn’t mean I’m not relieved that they’re both alive. Or—” Fiona’s words halted as her breath hitched in her throat. She pressed her lips tightly together and her nostrils flared as she brought her breathing under control.

“They learned their lesson with what happened. Alistair won’t be joining in any more Warden expeditions. Malcolm won’t allow himself to be unduly influenced by his brother like that again. That is, if he...” Líadan trailed off and swallowed hard as the possibilities bubbled up to the surface again. Where he could be, what could have happened, how he could be injured or even dead and they couldn’t help him because they didn’t even know. She squeezed her eyes shut at the sudden constriction of her chest. “Creators, does it ever _stop_?”

“No. It doesn’t.” Fiona took in another breath as if bracing herself for a confession. “It’s unrelenting and crushing and it will only get worse as time goes by.”

Líadan’s eyes popped open so she could see Fiona. “Are you talking about how it was for you after you gave them to Maric?”

“If it had been like this after I gave them to Maric, I would have been in Ferelden and taking them back in an instant. No, that was different.” Fiona raised her hands slightly and motioned around them. “This is what it was like for me during the Blight. Bits and pieces of news flowing into Weisshaupt about the supposed demise of the Wardens in Ferelden. Rumors that a couple of Wardens survived the massacre at Ostagar. More rumors that it was Maric’s bastard sons who managed to live and continued to gather armies to stop the Blight. But I never knew for sure until it was all over. So I wondered the entire time if they were dead, if they were hurt, if they were suffering. They weren’t even supposed to be Wardens in the first place. I never wanted them to be. Even if I could never be a proper mother for them, who would wish the taint on their own child? But it was a Blight. All of Thedas was at risk and most of the time all I could think of was them. If they were alive at all. ” A small, rueful smile turned up the corners of her mouth for a moment. “Yet I didn’t much have a right to wonder at all, did I? I was never there for them.”

“You are now.”

“Being here physically isn’t the same. To be anything more is too dangerous. They know this, and so should you.”

“There has to be something that isn’t so drastic. There has to be a way to compromise. You haven’t heard them talking to each other at night when they’re on watch, or if they’ve gotten a rare moment alone to just chat as brothers. Alistair never really had a mother and Malcolm lost the woman who raised him when she stayed behind and died in order to ensure his escape. This... these walls you put up let you continue not talking to them about any of this history, or non-history, as it were, that you have between the three of you. You know how Wynne is with them—you acting the same way wouldn’t raise any suspicions, I don’t think.”

She held Líadan’s gaze for a moment, and then looked away into the dark forest. “There’s nothing I can do about that right now.”

“You could make a _choice_.”

Fiona turned back to her and raised an eyebrow. “The same as you have?”

 _Caught_. “Well.” She shrugged and didn’t bother suppressing a tiny smile. “Extenuating circumstances and all. Near-death realizations, and then grateful to be alive sort of thing. You know how it is.” Though, Líadan knew it wasn’t only that between them or they’d have acted on it long before they had even brought themselves to speak of it.

“I suppose that I do.” Fiona smiled as Líadan had. Her fingers touched her lips in a contemplative manner, and then she frowned slightly. “You didn’t... in the Deep Roads, I mean...” Her frown grew deeper, more at her inability to continue the question than the subject it brought up, it seemed.

“What? No! No. _Not_ in the Deep Roads. Or anywhere, actually.” Líadan felt a blush forming on her cheeks at the overwhelming feeling of awkwardness in talking about _this_ with Malcolm’s _mother_. 

“Yes, you have had a lot on your plate since then. Makes sense that you wouldn’t have gotten around to it yet.”

Somehow, Líadan became defensive that they hadn’t exactly entirely acted on what they’d decided. “Not for lack of trying. I mean, we almost—” She clapped her hand over her mouth before she said anything more. Because, really, this subject should never be discussed between the two of them. Ever. She glanced hesitantly over at Fiona.

Who was smirking. That conniving woman had done that _on purpose_. Not that Líadan felt she should really talk, considering what she’d done to Malcolm on purpose the other morning. Then her face flushed even more at the thought. Fiona snorted, and then Líadan started laughing.  For a moment, it felt good, the giggles chasing away the pervading worry over Malcolm. And had he been there to witness the exchange, he would have blushed even more than she was, and laughed just as hard. Had he been there, she probably would’ve dragged him into her tent at seeing his open smile, the one that touched his eyes, the smile they rarely got to see. Once in the tent, she would finish what they’d started at Highever, before—she squelched the thought. At the same time, her laughter lodged in her chest when it collided with a forming sob. Líadan kept both inside, blinking her eyes rapidly to keep from letting loose the panic. Now she fully understood why Fiona had stopped so often as she’d spoken. She must have been biting back the same impulses. What she still didn’t understand was why she wouldn’t go back to Highever. Líadan took a couple more breaths before looking over at the other elf. “Why are you so adamant that we go to Kal’Hirol instead of looking for him?”

The amusement drained from Fiona and left only seriousness behind. “If the Mother isn’t stopped from getting and tainting that Old God child, then it won’t matter if Malcolm is found and saved in the end or not. Not much point in searching for someone if you don’t stop the world from being doomed in the meantime. We can stop the Mother. That’s our job. The people searching for Malcolm now, that’s _their_ job. Once we’ve finished ours, we can help them with theirs. We can’t risk ignoring the Mother to personally search for him. Not while there are other people to search instead ofus. If no one else was looking, perhaps I would feel differently about attending to duty first over looking for my son. But we have the luxury of a large number of people who care about him who are looking. So we must do what they need us to do, which is to go to Kal’Hirol and end the Mother’s threat to Thedas. It hurts to feel like we’re abandoning him, but I’ve discovered in my life that doing the right thing is what often hurts us the most.”

Líadan brushed an errant chunk of hair out of her eyes. “One of the hardest things I’ve ever done is leave my clan. Malcolm and Alistair insisted that it was the right thing to do. So did my Keeper. They told me that if I stayed, I would die. That I ran the risk of tainting clanmates, and then dying. That it was better I leave them forever and live rather than staying behind, risking my clanmates’ lives, and dying anyway. I just hated leaving them behind.”

Fiona reached out and placed a reassuring hand on Líadan’s arm. “This is different. You will be returning. We just have to take care of the greater threat first.”

The guilt within her chest lessened. Only slightly, but enough for Líadan put aside her plan to return to Highever that night. “I have your word?”

“Yes.”

Líadan nodded, and then walked quietly with Fiona back to the camp.


	51. Chapter 51

**Chapter 51**

“Many are those who wander in sin,

Despairing that they are lost forever,

But the one who repents, who has faith

Unshaken by the darkness of the world,

And boasts not, nor gloats

Over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight

In the Maker’s law and creations, she shall know

The peace of the Maker’s benediction.

The Light shall lead her safely

Through paths of this world, and into the next.”

— _Canticle of Transfigurations 10_

**Malcolm**

“Hide your face better,” Astrid said, irritation making her tone sharp. “You Theirins are too easily recognizable.”

“I suppose that’s how the Orlesians so easily killed most of my ancestors at the start of the Occupation,” Malcolm replied, but he drew the hood of his cloak lower over his head anyway, allowing the shadow to fall more fully over his face.

“Slouch, as well. Your posture is too good. People will notice you otherwise.”

Scowling from under the hood, Malcolm slouched, and immediately felt the disapproving eyes of Eleanor Cousland burning into him all the way from the Fade for such poor posture. “You know, that is the exact opposite of what my mother always told me. This goes against years of hearing ‘straighten those shoulders, young man’ every time I forgot about my posture. And that was a lot, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t wondering.”

“Well, you should have been.”

Astrid muttered something under her breath in Anders, but Malcolm was fairly certain it was a string of curses and considered it a victory. He would cooperate and go with this woman to see the Divine, but he wouldn’t go quietly and he certainly wouldn’t be pleasant, at least what pleasant was for her. Instead, he would channel his older brother’s ability to babble, an ability he was certain ran strong in the Theirin line. He would do his best to keep up an endless stream of inane chatter what would hopefully drive the dour Anders woman absolutely insane. Judging by her reactions to him within the last five minutes, he was off to a decent start. Then he discovered that he couldn’t much talk her to death while they were walking through the city of Highever, as many people would recognize his voice since he’d grown up here. So he kept his silence as they made their way through the quiet streets and to the docks. She brought him directly to one of the many merchant ships creaking alongside the piers. At one point, Malcolm thought he caught a glimpse of the old woman who’d given him the information on the Tevinters, but when he looked back at where she was, she was gone. 

As Astrid spoke with the sailor on duty at the gangway, Malcolm surveyed the darkened sky, wondering if the clouds he’d seen out there earlier would end up being a storm out at sea. Then the Anders Warden was prodding him to move onto the ship and stop gawking at the sky like a new surface dwarf. After Astrid showed him a bit of paper, the sailor waved them onto the ship and didn’t give Malcolm a second glance. Even the mabari didn’t warrant much more than a quick raised eyebrow. “I guess you aren’t as recognizable as I thought,” Malcolm said quietly to his dog.

The mabari huffed and shot a baleful look at Astrid. Malcolm muffled a snort. Astrid sighed just loudly enough for Malcolm to hear, and then motioned him to the lower decks. “Have you eaten?” she asked after she’d closed the door. They had a tiny cabin she’d secured with two narrow bunks and not much else.

“No.” He looked around for something to sit on, but the only thing available was the lower bunk that Astrid had already claimed. Unwilling to be any closer to that woman than he had to be, he leaned against the rough bulkhead. “The rest of them probably are right now.”

“Will they be searching for you tonight?”

He shrugged. “Not sure. Maybe. If they think I’m brooding, they might not even look until some time tomorrow. I, um, sort of have a precedent for wandering off at times.” For some reason, he felt embarrassed to say it, even though he thought he had no reason to want this woman’s respect. He knew he shouldn’t care what she thought, since she’d abandoned her duties and Weisshaupt’s directive in going straight to the Divine. Except she’d been the one to point out that Wardens were dying because of his stubborn, prideful actions, so perhaps she wasn’t as much in remiss as he’d assumed.

“I am aware.”

“I figured you were, seeing as how you worked everything out about getting me out of Highever without alerting everyone immediately.”

Astrid retrieved a pack from under the bottom bunk and started to rummage through it. “You must stay in this cabin until the ship is underway,” she said, and then handed him some rather unappetizing trail rations of jerky and hardtack. 

He made a face, thinking of the good food he could’ve had at the castle. Even here it didn’t have to be this kind of awful. They were in _port_. The food she’d given him was stuff you ate in the middle of a war when you didn’t have access to a supply train, or you were months out at sea. Not food you ate while still _in port_. His stomach growled, and he accepted the food anyway, though with a tight, somewhat grateful smile. “You could at least have let me eat dinner.”

“And risk you getting recognized in the city? I think not. Or did you mean let you return to the castle and sneak out later? I think one of your many perceptive companions would have figured out something was going on. Perhaps your brother the king may not have picked up on it, but your Dalish friend would have. By not leaving the city immediately, we’re in enough danger as it is at being discovered. But this was the first ship leaving in the morning. As it is, its first port of call is Cumberland, and not Val Royeaux. I think—”

“Her.”

Astrid blinked in confusion. “I’m sorry?”

He motioned towards the walls with his hand. “The ship. You refer to a ship as a you would a woman. So it’s ‘her first port of call’ and not—”

Her confusion shifted into a glare aimed at him. “I get the point. There’s no need for you to belabor it.”

Malcolm thought there were plenty of reasons to belabor his point, especially if it irritated Astrid, but he decided not to say so. He sighed, removed his sword and propped in the corner closest to him. Then he slid down the wall to sit on the floor, offering some of his food to Gunnar after he was seated. The dog took the jerky and ignored the biscuit. “Just thought I’d mention it since we’ll be on a ship for at least two days. Wouldn’t want you to look foolish in front of the crew or anything.”

“I’m sure I’ll look foolish enough vomiting up everything I’ve eaten for the past few days into the ocean, so no need to worry about not using the proper form of pronoun for the ship.”

“Oh, you get seasick. Unfortunate.”Malcolm almost managed to sound sincere. “You know, if we’d traveled with a mage, they could’ve relieved you of your shipboard illness.” He leaned his head on the bulkhead behind him. 

“You’re speaking of Líadan?”

Guilt trickled through him at the mention of her name, reminding him that he’d already broken the promise he’d made to her for him not to leave. “No. She still can’t heal. I was talking about Anders. He’s another Fereldan Warden you don’t know. A damn fine healer. I daresay even better than Wynne. She—in case you were wondering, which you probably aren’t, but I’ll tell you anyway—was the Circle mage who traveled with us during the Blight.” Not that he’d ever tell Wynne that to her face. Despite Anders being her student years ago, he wasn’t quite sure how she’d take to being informed she had a better in the healing specialty. “Doesn’t matter anyway. No healing mage. You’ll just have to suffer.”

“Apparently so.”

His eyes narrowed slightly at the unspoken insult, but he didn’t look in the woman’s direction. “You hear about Marius?”

“That he’s missing and probably dead?”

“You have, then.” Maker, this woman was making the very _air_ in the cabin awkward, and he had no way to escape it. He stretched out his legs in front of him and Gunnar dropped his head onto Malcolm’s right knee. “I think he’s dead. I saw him in the Fade, during the Harrowing. He said some really strange things, too. I mean, there’s no telling if it was really—”

“What did he say?” There was a note of urgency in Astrid’s voice that Malcolm hadn’t heard before, or ever suspected the Anders woman could even feel.

He shrugged. “What does it matter to you?”

“Whatever I may have done, I am still a Grey Warden, and so was Marius. If he is truly dead and in the Fade and told you something, it might be of great importance. Other, more experienced Wardens might even be able to decipher it if it was a message or not. Or would you let his death be in vain, as well?”

Malcolm chuckled ruefully as words his brother had spoken at Ostagar came to mind. _“The way she wields guilt, they should stick her in the army.”_ The description Alistair had employed for the Revered Mother could also apply to Astrid quite well. He’d never thought guilt could be such a finely-honed weapon, but Astrid had proven a master at wielding it. “No, I suppose not.” And for a woman whose actions had appeared to be deserting the Grey Wardens, she seemed to harp an awful lot on being a proper one. “He told me he had a message for someone important, and that maybe I could pass it along. Never told me who the person was though, because he said I’d figure it out.” He felt Astrid’s glare without needing to look in her direction. She wanted him not to ramble, to state everything quickly and correctly and without decoration. He, however, preferred to ramble when it suited him, like it did now. “I still haven’t figured out who the message was for, though. Ha, maybe it’s you. But probably not, as I think I would’ve known on by now if it was.”

Another muttered swear in Anders, and then Astrid asked, “Are you going to tell me the message or not, Warden?”

He mostly hid the smirk plying at his lips. “I was getting to that. He said, now, mind you, he was more than just a _bit_ crazy-looking, so I’m not sure how much of the message you should take to heart—”

“Just tell me the message.”

“Yes, I’m nearly there. Anyway, so he said to me, ‘One of my children will soon be reborn, Beauty in a little wolf, twinned with a wolf king.’ And then he kind of just stared at me for a second before he grabbed me by the shoulders with _really_ bloody hands, and got it all over my armor.” Malcolm reflexively looked down, but the bloodstains on his armor were covered by his cloak. The stains were there, though, all the same. Velanna’s blood. “I was trying to get him to tell me what he was talking about, and then he says, ‘From this, change will come to His world, and vengeance will be mine.’ I’ve no idea what it means. Maybe he was talking about the people who got him killed. Maybe he was talking about the Wardens.” Malcolm slid a glance in Astrid’s direction. “Maybe he was talking about you.”

She scoffed. “I’m certain it had nothing to do with me.”

“Maybe he knew your plans. It’s the Fade. You never know.”

“Did you tell Riordan about this?”

“And when exactly would I have told him that? While I was in the Fade? While I was staring at the dead body of a fellow Warden? While I was out looking for a place to bury her ashes? While I was leaving with you for Cumberland?” He made as if to stand. “Shall I run back to Highever right now and tell him?”

The hint of him trying to leave sent Astrid to her feet. “You will stay right here.”

Malcolm held up his hands in innocence. “I was kidding. I told you I would cooperate. I gave you my word. I don’t want any other Wardens to die. I’d go with you now even if you weren’t forcing me.” With a little difficulty, he broke the rectangular biscuit in half. Maker, were these the kind that got baked four times instead of two, the kind made for extra-super-long journeys? He held in a sigh. Probably. Gunnar ignored the piece Malcolm set aside for him. Smart dog. “So you just assumed the templars would fail? And, what, went with them to watch?”

She slowly sat back down on her bunk, but kept a wary eye on him the entire time. “Since they had already failed at their task more than once, I felt it was safe to assume they would be unsuccessful in securing your help yet again. I followed them at a distance, without them or the Divine knowing, as I doubt they would appreciate my doubt in their abilities.”

Malcolm pursed his lips and turned the piece of hardtack between his fingers to avoid looking at Astrid. “If you had so much doubt in the Chantry in the first place, then why disobey Georg and go to them at all?” He threw the bit of biscuit in his hand across the tiny room and into the planks of the opposite bulkhead. “Why put me through this? Why put _everyone_ through this? Why let Velanna _die_?” He willed himself to calm down, and then turned to face her.

Astrid sat uneasily on the edge of the bunk, a blank expression on her face as her eyes focused on the bulkhead across from her. “When I left Weisshaupt, I did not doubt the Chantry’s abilities. The Grey Wardens are many things, but we are not mage hunters. That is a job left for the templars, the Chantry’s knights. I felt that, as a Warden, we needed the people best trained to catch mages to find Morrigan. Little did I know that Val Royeaux and the Grand Cathedral would be so... decadent. Soft. _Orlesian_.” Tinges of sadness and disappointment mixed with the disgust in her tone.

He didn’t bother trying to muffle his small snicker at the woman’s expense. “I could’ve told you that. A lot of Wardens could’ve told you that, actually. The Chantry, this far south, is pretty much synonymous with Orlais. It’s how Kordilius Drakon intended it to be when he built the Grand Cathedral and had himself crowned Emperor straight after. Andraste was born in Ferelden, but the Chantry is pretty much Orlesian. However, while they might appear soft to you, that isn’t exactly what they are. In fact, they’re quite ruthless, but they won’t say it to your face. They far prefer backstabbing over open conflict.”

“If that is how you truly feel about the Chantry, then why did you insist on protecting its templars from Morrigan for so long?”

“Because I’m tired of people dying. If you hadn’t picked up on it, that’s why I’m here with you right now. If templars—or anyone, really—stay away from Morrigan, they won’t get killed. Well, at least not by her. I can’t vouch for any other job-related hazards. But I see your point. Wardens are a more rare and important resource than templars.” It was a point he wished he’d seen earlier, before Velanna had died in their attempt to prove to the Chantry that he wasn’t a mage. His attention drifted back to the remaining hardtack he had in his hands, wondering if he was hungry enough to try eating it. Then exhaustion from the day’s activities crept into his mind and body and he pushed it away as much as he could. It wasn’t very far and tiredness continued to pull at his eyes.

“I do not believe your heart was in the wrong place in the matter,” Astrid said after a moment. “Not in regards to the templars, or even what you chose to do with Morrigan.”

“I don’t need your—what?” He snapped his head around to look at her. “You scolded me over and over for not killing her. I distinctly remember that. Hard to forget that sort of condemnation, especially after Marius and everyone else changed their minds.” 

“I’ve had time to think. Yes, I think you chose poorly when you didn’t kill her when you had the chance, but you did at least manage to refuse her offer. That is something, and indicates that you will one day make a good Warden. If my ploy with the Chantry had ended with your death, I would have mourned the loss of a decent, young Grey Warden.”

“I’m touched. Really.” He patted his cuirass, just above his heart. “All warm and fuzzy.”

“Sarcasm does not suit you.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Really? I thought I was rather well-suited for it. Damn. I’ll have to find something new, then.”

“I would suggest seriousness, but I doubt it would take.” A shadow of a ghost of a smile, Malcolm thought, _might_ have flitted very briefly over Astrid’s mouth.

“Was... was that a joke? Did you just make a joke?”

“Of course not.” She considered him for a moment. “I have to say, I’m pleased you cooperated. I hadn’t wanted to tell the Divine about your and Alistair’s parentage, as it would have destabilized Ferelden.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes, and then realized how nice it would be to close them and go to sleep. “I didn’t know you cared so much about Ferelden.” He tugged off his gauntlets and his boots as he waited for Astrid’s answer. The call of that upper bunk and sleep had gotten far too loud for him to ignore any longer.

“I care about the Grey Wardens and our mission. As such, that means Ferelden needs to stay politically stable during the Thaw period and preferably for long afterward, given that a strong Warden presence must be established there. Keeping the Divine from exploiting the information about your parentage would have proven difficult. I couldn’t even afford to leave the insurance of a letter behind at the Grand Cathedral just in case something happened to me. Information like that getting out in an uncontrolled manner would result in catastrophe, especially during a Thaw, and _especially_ with Morrigan and that unborn Old God child free on Thedas.” She stood up from her seat on the lower bunk. “I will leave you to change and rest, if you’d like. We have a few days. If you... if you have any other questions about the Grey Wardens, feel free to ask.”

He looked up at her from where he was fussing with a particularly uncooperative buckle on one of the leather straps of a pauldron. “You’re inviting me to ask you to talk? You? Seriously?”

“Abuse it and I will rescind the offer.”

“Ha. We wouldn’t want _that_ , now would we? But thank you for the offer. However, I think I’ll just take advantage of that bunk up there and sleep. For a very long time, if possible. Days. Maybe even the whole trip. You’ll have to leave the door a little open, though, in case Gunnar wants out. Don’t worry about him otherwise. He knows his way around a ship, good Highever mabari that he is.”

Astrid nodded then left the cramped cabin. Malcolm let out a long breath after she left, and then quickly stacked his armor in a corner with his sword. That done, he climbed up into the top bunk to think and eventually sleep. Something bothered him about what Astrid had said, but he couldn’t place it. His brain was going fuzzy with the tiredness and he could barely remember his own name, much less try to figure out anything important. He was aware enough to realize something was up, but that was it. The exhaustion from the Harrowing, coupled with the slight rocking of the ship, lulled him to sleep.

He awoke to a storm.

Malcolm sat up quickly, almost hitting his head on the ceiling in his haste. He must have slept for nearly an entire day if they were far enough out at sea to catch a storm of this size. The ship heaved underneath them, wallowing in the shallows of the troughs before being carried onto the crests of waves. He slid off his bunk and checked for Astrid—her bunk was empty. Most likely, the Anders woman was in misery on the top deck and heaving her guts over the side while trying not to get blown off the ship in the process. Gunnar let out a low whine from where he cowered in a corner. “Oh, stop being such a baby,” Malcolm told him. “You’re supposed to be a wardog, you know. That means not being scared by a little storm.” He drained a nearby flask of water. 

The mabari gave an indignant huff.

“Right, a mabari good at land war and not meant for sea. Fine. Be a big baby.” He ruffled the fur on the dog’s head, and then started pulling on his armor. While it wouldn’t really be a help if he fell off the ship or if the ship started to sink, wearing only the thin clothing he wore underneath the chainmail, even with the gambeson, didn’t seem wise. As he threw on his cloak, he decided he’d just have to take extra special care not to fall off the ship, and to avoid the bowsprit for the time being. While one could be retrieved from falling into the sea in calm weather, if you fell in during a storm, that was pretty much it for you. Man overboard drills didn’t work so well in the height of a storm. 

Thunder boomed through the sky after a loud crack of lightning. Both Malcolm and the dog flinched at the sounds. “I hope lightning doesn’t hit the mast.”

Gunnar whined at the comment.

“Yes, I know. I’m so very optimistic.” He buckled his sword around his waist. “All right, you stay here and... cower, I suppose, since there’s not really anything for you to guard. I’m going to go see what’s going on topside.” After giving the mabari a final rub behind the ears, Malcolm headed for the main deck. The things Astrid had told him earlier rolled through his head as the deck rolled under his feet. While he easily balanced himself to the movement of the ship, he wasn’t having such an easy time sorting out his head. At first, he’d gone with Astrid on this trip to Val Royeaux because she’d threatened his brother and Ferelden, and because he didn’t want to see any more Wardens die due to the Chantry’s attempts to get him to cooperate. After, he’d thought he’d understood that he was going to keep more Wardens from dying, to keep his brother and his country safe, that he didn’t need to be threatened to be made to go. But there was something in what Astrid had said... something about not even leaving anything behind at the Grand Cathedral in case something happened to her.

He’d thought that a bit strange, to assume something would _happen_ to her. Maybe a shipwreck, he supposed. Or maybe she thought he wouldn’t see reason at all and would just try to kill her outright. Not that it hadn’t crossed his mind when he’d run into her at Highever, but still. The deck lurched again, enough to throw him against the bulkhead as he climbed up the ladder—they were stairs, but the sailors called them ladders—to the top deck. He cursed under his breath, and then popped open the hatch and clambered onto the deck. Full night greeted him with howling winds, swearing sailors, rumbling thunder, and intermittent lightning. Decent sized storm, it seemed. Malcolm properly secured the hatch behind him, not wanting water from the larger waves to wash into the hold.

He squinted against the lashing rain as he tried to locate Astrid, wondering if she knew enough to stay closer to the center of the ship, even if she was sick. With alarm, he noticed she figure leaning over the side of the railing near the bow, close to the bowsprit. She was going to get herself... 

Killed.

Oh.

_Would that be a bad thing?_

Astrid was the link the Chantry had to the knowledge about him and Alistair and their true relationship to Fiona. She hadn’t left anything behind with the Divine to look at in case she didn’t return at a specified time. She hadn’t told anyone she was leaving, much less where she was going or what she intended. If she died, she would no longer be a threat. Ferelden wouldn’t be threatened by her knowledge and her willingness to use it to further her own ends. Ends she claimed were in the purview of the Grey Wardens, but weren’t sanctioned by the Wardens. His problem—and Ferelden’s problem—stood miserably at the railing of a ship heaving at the mercy of an autumn storm, and ignorant of everything else around her. The sea might simply swallow her up of a large enough wave hit the ship. And if that didn’t happen... he had the drop on her.

 _I could do it_.

He hated himself for even thinking it, and then hated himself even more for not pushing away the idea. The solution to his problem and the problem that plagued Ferelden and his brother had presented itself to Malcolm practically wrapped in a shiny bow. The sailors were too busy in their own tasks of keeping the ship upright and staying on board the ship to pay attention to any wayward passengers. People fell off ships during storms all the time. His own natural father had been lost at sea. Astrid could simply become one of the lost and no one would be the wiser. 

And everything that Malcolm had sought to protect by going with Astrid would be even better protected if he went about it this way. He just had to help in the matter. No. Not just help. He had to kill her. He would have to kill another Warden and hope that it would be the last one to die through his doing. But this wasn’t like fighting darkspawn or bandits. Yet while the danger she presented in being alive was different, it was still very real. When Malcolm realized that he would have to kill Astrid, he discovered that he didn’t really hate her, and he didn’t exactly wish her dead. But it was something that had to be done.

He exhaled slowly and tried to calm the hammering of his heart. Then he made his way to the bow of the ship, staying close to the center and keeping tabs of where all the lines and other possible handholds were in case they got hit by a huge wave. In a storm this size, it wasn’t an ‘if’ so much as it was a ‘when.’ Soon enough, he was standing at Astrid’s side as she vomited more bile into the dark ocean. “Regretting not bringing a mage?” he asked over the wind when she straightened.

Astrid wiped at her mouth with a corner of her cloak and groaned in reply. The ship heaved again, and so did she. Her hands gripped at the railing while she leaned over half her body out so that none of her bile would hit the ship. Malcolm felt some true pity for her plight. Lightning shot behind the clouds as the ship plunged downward in a trough. Then the sky went dark again and Malcolm could barely see the woman on her tiptoes next to him. He felt the ship reach the bottom of the trough and start to raise up on the next wave. Seizing the darkness and the momentum, Malcolm reached out and pushed Astrid up and over the railing. 

She plummeted soundlessly into the sea, tumbling over and over before hitting the rough surface. Lightning flashed again, and thunder covered the sound of her struggles as she slapped at the water. As he stared down in shock at the flailing woman far below, Malcolm realized that Astrid couldn’t swim. Her face was pallid in the light, eyes and mouth open wide in surprise until the water rushed into them. Then the light was gone and everything plunged into darkness again. By the time the next round of lightning arced through the sky, Astrid was gone.

Malcolm stared at the foamy water that gave no sign of his fellow Warden. Then he wondered what part of him had drowned with Astrid in the Waking Sea.

He remembered then that he had to do everything properly, as if it had been an accident that Astrid fell overboard, and he shouted that there was a man overboard. Sailors who could spare the effort raced to the railings, but none were able to see Astrid. They couldn’t give the standard heave-to order for retrieving someone who’d fallen overboard. Within minutes, the ship’s captain let him know that he didn’t think they would see Astrid again. “Unless she washes up on a shore somewhere,” the grizzled man added. “But even then, she won’t be alive.” He clapped Malcolm on the back. “Cheer up, lad. At least she paid for the journey in advance and I won’t have to make you one of my crew.”

“Ha.” Malcolm wasn’t entirely sure the man wasn’t kidding and his voice was strained as a result.

“You should get back belowdecks. Don’t want to lose two Wardens in one journey. I can’t imagine your Order would think too kindly about that. We’ll be another day out to sea, long as we can weather this storm, and then we’ll be in Cumberland.” A strong hand on Malcolm’s shoulder guided him back to the hatch. 

By morning, the storm had passed and the ship continued to Cumberland. The calm sea showed no sign of Astrid, and the captain insisted on a brief memorial for the Grey Warden, as it was a ‘respectable thing to do for the people that end Blights.’ Or something like that, as Malcolm hadn’t been paying as much attention to the man’s words as he should have. Soon after, they were mooring in Cumberland, the ship offloading and loading cargo and passengers before it continued on to Val Royeaux. Malcolm chose to disembark instead of stay, Astrid’s pack on his back and his mabari at his side, and guilt for what he’d done a constant shadow.

It wasn’t until he was off the pier and in the docks district of Cumberland that he realized he had no coin. He hadn’t brought his coinpurse with him when he’d left Highever Castle, and when he’d searched through Astrid’s pack, he didn’t turn one up. That meant she’d been wearing the damn thing when she’d gone for her impromptu swim in the ocean. And, since he was new to the whole murdering people in cold blood thing, he hadn’t the wherewithal to pick her pocket before killing her. All of which, put together, meant he had no coin to get home.

Fantastic.

Malcolm spun around and stared out at the harbor. He couldn’t exactly _swim_ across the Waking Sea and back to Highever. Perhaps he could stow away on one of the ships, but if he got caught, that meant they’d either toss him from the ship, middle of the ocean or not, or press him into their service right then and there to pay for his passage, and then some. No, no, that wouldn’t do. He knew that with his luck, he’d be caught fairly easily.

A bird call from behind him caught his attention. 

He slowly turned in its direction, knowing he’d _heard_ a crow, but not particularly wanting to confirm it. Yet confirm it he did, as a crow stared at him with glittering yellow eyes from a perch on a nearby shed’s rooftop. As the crow studied him, he studied it back, and then he remembered where he was on Thedas. Cumberland was just west of the Planasene Forest and the Vimmark Mountains. And just north of both of those places was where Morrigan had last been seen in the Free Marches. Closer to Morrigan than he’d been while in Ferelden. Closer to finding her, if he just went and looked.

The crow called again, throwing in its opinion as Malcolm considered the choices happenstance had given him.


	52. Chapter 52

**Chapter 52**

“Time was once a blessing

but long journeys are made longer

when alone within.

Take spirit from the long ago

but do not dwell in lands no longer yours.”

— _Suledin_ (Endure), a Dalish song

**Líadan**

“You need to stop and see Wade and Herren before you join the others at the Deep Roads entrance, right?” Riordan asked her. “I need to see them as well. Walk with me, please?”

Líadan eyed him curiously for a moment before nodding her agreement. They strode together to the armory without exchanging any other words. The two of them had reached a silent accord since the night before when she returned without argument from her shortened attempt at leaving for Highever. He didn’t prod her any further about duty, while she didn’t lodge any further protests about having to go to Kal’Hirol. Mostly it meant that they barely said a word to each other, neither of them entirely willing to let a try at conversation ignite into a full-blown argument. Sometimes, though, curiosity overwhelmed reason. “So why are you really staying topside?” she asked as they descended the steps into the Vigil’s yard. “Tiernan and Otho are staying up here as well. They could’ve taken care of any correspondence.” She didn’t mention Malcolm or what would happen if he was found.

He didn’t answer for a moment, and the ringing of hammers from repairmen filled the air of the yard. “Fiona reminded me that due to the extent of my taint, our party would be swarmed by the darkspawn within hours of travel into the Deep Roads. It would make the mission far longer and far harder than it needed to be, were I to go. It’s the same reason why we try to send the most junior of the Wardens with the recruits to retrieve the darkspawn blood. After all, we don’t want the recruits to be overwhelmed before they even have the opportunity to take the Joining.”

“I had wondered why the junior Wardens led the recruits. I’d figured we would’ve sent them with more experienced Wardens, people better able to watch over a group and keep them from getting into too much trouble.”

“Not so within our Order, I’m afraid.”

“But... hasn’t Fiona been a Warden longer than you have? Wouldn’t her taint—oh, right. I remember now. She isn’t tainted any longer. Not exactly, anyway, even though she can still sense darkspawn.” Líadan frowned. “Doesn’t that make this trip dangerous for her? Running the risk of contracting the taint again?”

“Her knowledge and leadership is indispensable for this mission and it makes no sense to limit her as a Warden just because she no longer bears the taint, as she can still sense darkspawn.”

Líadan smirked. “That’s what she told you when you asked her the same, is it?”

“Along with some rather creative Orlesian and Anders swearing when I suggested she let one of the other Wardens lead this trip, yes.” Riordan sighed. “She’s right, of course. Even if Malcolm wasn’t missing, I would have had her go. The fact that she doesn’t have the progressed taint of a Warden with her number of years of service makes her a very valuable asset on a Deep Roads assignment like this.”

At the mention of Malcolm, she looked away from Riordan and towards the forge they were closing on in front of them. Fiona had been right. The pervading worry had only gotten worse, even as she did her best to concentrate on the tasks before them with the Mother. 

A reassuring hand briefly touched her upper arm. “I promise that when you get back, you will have leave to help the search parties,” Riordan said quietly.

She nodded, but didn’t look at him, instead choosing to walk over to where Wade and Herren sat and chatted over an early lunch. They both noticed her approach and smiled brightly at her. “Ah, there you are!” said one of them as they each rose to their feet. Creators, she still couldn’t remember who was who. 

“You have it ready?” Riordan asked from behind her. 

The balding man with the dark, thick mustache clapped his hands together. “Yes! I’ve been wondering what you would think. Let me fetch it! I will be right back.”

“I hope you don’t have any more urgent custom projects for Wade, Commander?” the other man asked. Líadan almost grinned at finally figuring out who was who without having to ask. _Wade_ was the smith, not Herren. And it was Herren who was the one now frowning at Riordan.

“No, nothing off the top of my head. This one was a special case,” Riordan said, his voice barely hiding the chuckle behind it. 

Before Herren could reply, Wade practically burst out of the storage room carrying a mage’s staff in his hands. It looked much the same as the one Líadan had lost in the Deep Roads—the one that had almost killed her, in fact. A third of its length was a finely-honed blade made of silverite, the rest of it smoothly-hewn oak inlaid with runes worked with lyrium. “This one is much better than my first attempt,” said Wade. “That one was so terribly crude I couldn’t believe that it worked.” 

Líadan glanced over at Riordan, who now stood beside her. “Since when do you use a staff? Are you another secret mage?”

The Warden Commander grinned. “I don’t, and I am not. When I heard what had happened in the Deep Roads, I sent a messenger here to Herren and Wade to have them make a new one for you for when you got back. You were rather partial to that staff.”

 _Before it tried to_ kill _me_ , she thought.

Wade extended the staff resting on the palms of his outstretched hands to Líadan. “And what happened to the other one, might I ask?”

As she accepted the stave from the blacksmith, Líadan recognized Riordan’s peace offering. She smiled a little, first at Riordan, and then at Wade. “I lost it.”

“Did you misplace it?” asked Herren. “How does one misplace a staff of that size?”

One of the surface dwarves working on a wall nearby snorted, while the other two openly chuckled. 

“We were in the Deep Roads. And...” she trailed off, not wanting to say how she’d essentially ended up trapping herself due to her own spellcasting. “Well, would you believe a dragon was involved?”

“A dragon?” Wade’s eyes brightened with eagerness. “Did you kill it? I hope you didn’t do anything so rash as to burn its carcass. Imagine the dragonbone! The magnificent scales! I could make such wonderful things from exotic materials such as those.”

“We didn’t kill it. From what I was told, when they cut the dragon’s tail in two, the dragon flew away and didn’t return,” Líadan said. “I suppose half of the tail might still be up in that clearing in Drake’s Fall.”

The smith scowled. “Wouldn’t do any good now. It will surely be snowed in by the time anyone got back up there. What a waste. No one has any appreciation for fine materials anymore.”

Líadan hefted the staff Wade had given her, stepped back to give herself space, and ran through a couple forms. Wade was right, this one was even better than the last, with a much finer balance and sturdier workmanship. The magic practically hummed in her hands, and happily at that. It almost let her believe that she was better than just a mediocre mage. She flashed a grin at the smith and at the Warden Commander. “It’s fantastic. What do I owe you?”

Riordan rolled his eyes. “It’s a gift and you know it. You should head to the Deep Roads entrance, though. I believe the others are waiting for you.” He paused, and then said, “May Mythal protect you on your journey.”

She smiled at him again, impressed that he didn’t lump her in with the Andrastians. “And may your Maker watch over you in our absence.” A nod of her head, and then she headed for the basement, idly twirling her new staff in her hands. Two days to Kal’Hirol. If they could make their dealings with the Mother fast—kill her without too many questions and be done with it—they could be back within five days. Less if they didn’t meet with much darkspawn opposition on their way there or on the return. Part of her wanted darkspawn, though, as killing them would keep her mind far more occupied than simple travel through the ancient dwarven byways. 

When she got to the Deep Roads entrance, the other experienced Wardens—Fiona, Sigrun, Oghren, Anders, Nathaniel, and a fully-healed Mhairi—were waiting for her as Riordan had said. Anders smirked when he saw her staff. “Got a new toy, I take it? Is this one going to try to kill you, too?” Then he held out a hand, asking to test it out himself.

Líadan handed the other mage her stave. “Wade doesn’t seem to think so. He was actually pleased with how this one turned out.”

Anders spun the staff cautiously, leery of the wickedly sharpened blade that formed one end. Then he shot a lightning bolt into the stone wall across from them and whistled at the resulting burn mark. “Oh, I _like_ it. I might need to get one of these.”

“Do you even know how to handle a blade, mage?” Nathaniel asked.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I do tend to cut up my food before I put it in my mouth.” Anders handed the staff back to Líadan and told her thank you.

Nathaniel scoffed. “Your eating knife doesn’t exactly count as a blade.”

“Hey, when it cuts you all the same, it counts as a blade.”

“Also,” said Líadan, “Wade is upset that we didn’t get any dragonbone or dragon scales from the half a tail that we left up in Drake’s Fall.”

Anders rubbed at the perpetual stubble on his cheek. “You know, it’s kind of strange to think there’s a high dragon now flying around up there with a stumpy half-tail.”

“It’s kind of strange to think there’s a high dragon around there _at all_ ,” said Nathaniel.

“I can’t believe you guys fought a high dragon without me!” said Sigrun. “Did it swoop? I heard that dragons swoop. Do they? And breathe fire? I heard that, too.”

“Yes, there was swooping,” said Anders. “No one plucked off the ground and into the sky though, lucky us. And yes, the dragon breathed fire. A lot of it. It was a very angry dragon.”

Nathaniel pulled his bowstring from a pouch on his belt and wrapped it around his fingers to check its strength. “I can’t imagine why. It isn’t like we were shooting arrows and magic at it at the time.” He looked over at Oghren. “Or shouting insults at it.”

“Hey, the pike-twirler and the elf’s boyfriend started it,” said Oghren. “I only joined in. Peer pressure and all.”

Líadan leveled a glare at her dwarven friend, even as she fought a slight tickle of amusement. She knew that once, long ago, she never would’ve considered this man an acquaintance, much less a friend, but things had very much changed since then. She and the dwarf had fought in many battles together. He’d helped save her from the cave-in. He had also been the first one to sit with her while they waited for Malcolm to finish his Harrowing. Oghren hadn’t really said much as they waited, just a few occasional grunts accompanied by sharing his flask of ale. But she understood that _he_ understood and sat with her in their shared understanding. As crass and loud as Oghren could be, there was a dwarf with a pretty good heart hidden under all of that. Not that he wouldn’t deny it vehemently were she or anyone else to bring it up, but it was there all the same. And Creators take him, he really could be funny sometimes. Now wasn’t particularly one of those times since _she_ was his target, but still. There were times. And she trusted him with her life. She sighed. “He’s not—”

“Oh, _please_ ,” said Anders. “Spare us the entirely unconvincing denial. We all know what’s going on. In fact, we’ve known longer than the two of you have about how you feel. And you know what? I bet you even tried to sneak away from camp last night to get back to Highever and look for him.”

She folded her arms over her cuirass and looked in the direction of the opened Deep Roads sealing doors. “I don’t have to answer that.”

“More like you don’t _need_ to,” said Nathaniel.

Sigrun clapped her gloved hands together and slid over to Líadan’s side. “So you both finally came to your senses, did you? Tell me everything.”

Líadan held in a sigh. “There’s nothing to tell. Besides, we’re supposed to be going into the Deep Roads.” She waved at the open doors. “See? All set for us to go in. And we shouldn’t leave those doors open any longer than absolutely necessary.”

“Yes. We should attend to our duty.” Mhairi gave a resolute nod and strode through the opening and into the Deep Roads.

“I’m not the only one who has to stop from giggling every time I hear the word ‘duty,’ am I?” asked Anders, who then followed the other Wardens as they walked by ones and twos into the Deep Roads. 

“Nope!” Oghren grinned. “Sure sounds a lot like another word I use for stuff that—”

“You two would think of _that_ , wouldn’t you?” Nathaniel tucked his bowstring back into its pouch as his scowl grew deeper in exasperation.

Part of Líadan agreed with what Oghren was intimating, though. Sometimes, duty was a dirty word. The light from the torches in the Vigil’s basement faded as they traveled deeper underground. The three mages lit the ends of their staffs, an easy spell to maintain even for those of lesser magical abilities. Sigrun sidled up to her and pummeled her with questions as they walked. Líadan did her best to avoid giving straight answers, which only served to make the dwarf more determined. The incessant chatter reminded the elf of traveling with Wardens she’d known longer, like Alistair and Malcolm, and the familiarity brought a warmth into her chest that the Deep Roads always leeched out. The tightness had yet to go away, but at least the pervading emptiness of the Deep Roads had yet to set in. Because Sigrun was leading them to Kal’Hirol, it meant that she and Líadan walked at the front of the line with a very quiet Fiona close by. At the first intersection they came across, Sigrun directed them to go left.

“I’m not sure,” Anders piped up from the rear of the group. “You know what happened the last time we went left at an intersection in the Deep Roads.”

“Well, when we went _right_ , we found sodding baby dragons,” Oghren said.

Sigrun frowned. “No, I really don’t know what happened, not really. What happened up there? We were told that Velanna died, but the messenger didn’t know how. Did she die in the cave-in that trapped you? Was it the Architect?”

“Turns out that Drake’s Fall was the least of our dangers,” Líadan replied, “and that includes the high dragon, too.” Then she relayed to Sigrun everything that had happened in the past weeks, from the Architect possibly performing experiments on them in the strange ruins in the Deep Roads, to Velanna dying when she helped with the barbaric shemlen Harrowing. She avoided the subject of Malcolm’s disappearance, as she didn’t want to discuss it further, and Riordan had already done a decent job of explaining what they knew about it—which was pretty much nothing. 

“He wants to free them? The other darkspawn?” Sigrun asked.

“That’s what he said. He told Malcolm he was doing some sort of Joining using Grey Warden blood.”

The dwarf wrinkled her nose. “Ew.”

“That’s quite different from his original plan was when the Wardens first came across him,” said Fiona. “Before, he wanted to kill the Old Gods and make everyone in all of Thedas take the Joining and essentially become darkspawn.”

“That sounds like a horrible plan. Some Wardens truly believed it could work?” asked Nathaniel.

“Some. What’s interesting is that it was only Wardens who were well into their Calling who believed it, for the most part. Bregan, and then Genevieve and Utha. And for the rest of us, he had to artificially accelerate the rate of the taint’s progression to bring us to an early-onset Calling. Only after all of us—except for Duncan, who remained untainted because of the dagger he stole, and King Maric, who wasn’t a Warden—were hearing the Call did he approach us with his ideas.”

“So, basically, in order to fall for it, they already pretty much had to be darkspawn. Otherwise, a Warden would see right through the complete stupidity of that plan,” said Anders.

“I thought the darkspawn didn’t have souls?” asked Sigrun. “Isn’t that why it takes a Grey Warden to kill an archdemon?”

Líadan nodded. “Yes. The Old God’s tainted soul will follow the taint into the closest tainted creature near it. Normally, it’s a darkspawn. Without a soul, the darkspawn is merely a vessel and the archdemon and the Blight continue in a new body. But when a Warden delivers the final blow, they become the closest tainted creature. Since two souls can’t occupy the same body, they annihilate each other and both die. It ends the archdemon, the Grey Warden, and the Blight. Well, unless there happens to be a traitorous wi—”

Anders interrupted her and said, “We _really_ know that part well enough as it is. And, um, you might want to unclench your fists. Especially the one holding your staff. Wouldn’t want you to get splinters. Since you can’t, you know, heal them like a normal mage.”

“I hate you. You’re a horrible little man.” She relaxed her hands anyway, even as she felt the pressure of worry returning to her chest. Anders’ teasing had reminded her of Malcolm and how he’d teased her so often at Weisshaupt when Fiona had done her best to teach Líadan how to heal properly.

“Hey! Watch who you’re calling little!”

Sigrun rolled her eyes as Oghren burst into laughter. Then she asked, “How can the Architect free them if they have no souls?”

“It apparently silences their song, which is the only thing that gives them direction.” Líadan frowned into the darkness of the paved dwarven road ahead of them. “It makes no sense because then they’ll just run wild all over Thedas and we won’t be able to predict anything about them other than they’ll kill and taint whatever they come across. It can’t really be a surprise that most of the freed darkspawn aren’t doing so hot in their newly Old God free existence.”

“What I can’t figure out,” said Nathaniel, “is how this Architect can even exist. Darkspawn, by their very nature, don’t have souls. The only reason the archdemon is able to lead the darkspawn is because it has the soul of a tainted Old God. For the Architect to do what he’s been doing, he has to have a soul.”

Fiona sighed. “The closest we could figure in all the research we did at Weisshaupt is that the Architect must have been a Grey Warden at some time. He waited too long to take his Calling, and he ended up in the form he has now instead of dying. No one is sure how old he really is or how he’s stayed alive all this time. But that’s our best guess about the Architect’s origins after,” she said, and then paused as she did calculations in her head. “More than twenty years of research.”

“I wonder where the darkspawn really come from,” said Líadan.

“The Chantry already gave us that answer,” Mhairi replied. “It was the Tevinter—”

Líadan turned and glared at the human warrior. “Not everyone believes in your Chantry. City elves and your fellow humans might, but Dalish elves do not.” She motioned at Sigrun and Oghren. “Or dwarves, as far as I know.”

“Dwarves don’t know the real sodding reason behind the darkspawn either,” Oghren said. “The Memories recorded by the Shaperate are full of questions and lacking on a whole lot of answers. First there were rumors in the Deep Roads, warriors and merchants disappearing. Then it was a sodding Blight and the darkspawn were everywhere, and still are.” He shrugged, the battleaxe resting on his shoulder bobbing up and down. “Doesn’t much matter, though. They’re here now and have to be killed, the whole bloody lot of them.”

Mhairi peered curiosity at Líadan. “And the Dalish? Where do your people think the darkspawn came from?”

“Same as the dwarves. We don’t know and we haven’t really hazarded any guesses. Creators, I didn’t even know until...” she trailed off as she remembered her first encounters with the taint and the darkspawn, and what the taint could do to people. Turning people into darkspawn or outright killing them, or if you happened to survive by becoming a Grey Warden, condemned to die in the Deep Roads in thirty years because of the taint anyway. “Let’s just say that I wasn’t aware of them until the Blight.”

“Is that why you became a Grey Warden?”

Líadan fought down the irritation. “In a manner of speaking.”

“That’s a bit vague.”

She spun and faced the other woman. “I was already tainted and was conscripted into the Wardens so that the Joining could possibly save my life. There. Now you know.” Then Líadan stalked forward, the light from her staff bouncing along the wall as her steps had become jerky because of her anger. 

“So you didn’t want to become a Warden?” Mhairi called after her.

“No.”

“I just find it hard to imagine that people wouldn’t want to join the Grey Wardens. I mean, after I heard that it was few Wardens who quelled the Blight almost single-handedly, I vowed to serve the Order if I could. I volunteered at the first chance I got.”

“Good for you.”

“I can see why, after the Joining, how being a Warden wouldn’t be for everyone, but I knew nothing of that before. And the Joining saved your life, did it not?”

Líadan rounded on Mhairi again. “By the Creators, if you don’t let this go—”

The warrior smiled. “You cannot hit with me with magic, you know. Remember? The king taught me some templar abilities when he first arrived at the Vigil.”

She let out a cry of frustration and turned her back on Mhairi. “That’s it, when I see Alistair again, I’m killing him.” Then she proceeded to ignore Mhairi’s other questions and soon enough, the warrior started asking the other Wardens why and how they’d become Wardens. Normally, someone would’ve mentioned that the Order tended to have an unspoken rule about not asking. However, being in the Deep Roads required almost constant conversation to keep from getting mired in its sad, desperate atmosphere, so the conversation kept going. They ended up traveling well into the night, not stopping until their steps started to falter and Sigrun reminded them that topside, it was long after sundown. Sleep was more difficult than Líadan ever remembered in the Deep Roads, even on that first trip after visiting Orzammar. Oghren kicking her awake for her watch was a blessing, and not even one in disguise when the dwarf told her she’d been screaming. 

Of course, she ended up assigned to a watch with Mhairi, because it turned out that Fiona had the same sneaky sense of humor as Riordan. But Mhairi had apparently been warned by someone and left the previous subject well enough alone. Then again, when left to silent thoughts in the quiet Deep Roads while staring out at nothing but darkness, she didn’t feel much more comfortable. Sigrun’s stone sense woke her up at the proper time, and she informed the two Wardens on watch and they awakened the others. Being back on the main road and trudging towards Kal’Hirol made her feel somewhat better, because at least there was a point to it rather than sitting and staring and ruminating.

“I think I found a shortcut,” Sigrun announced. 

Oghren walked over to where she stood next to an intersection that had a paved side road heading Creators knew where. Though it seemed to Líadan that Sigrun thought she knew where it would go. 

“You think it’ll be shorter? Shortcuts aren’t always short, at least in my experience,” said Oghren.

Sigrun bent and pressed her ear against the dusty stones again. “Yes. We’ll get there half a day sooner if we go this way. I wish I’d noticed it before, when I was trying to get away from those darkspawn. But, hey, I was in a hurry.” She motioned for the rest of the Wardens to follow. “This way!’

They had only traveled for a little longer when they came across the skeletal remains of a dwarf clutching a nearly-rotted leather pouch. Sigrun bent and pried open the pouch with her dagger. Messages slid out, some of them still readable, others crumbing into nothing. Sigrun frowned, and then handed the one remaining note with legible ink to Oghren. “Not sure if I read that one right. You’ll see why if you read the same thing I did.”

Oghren’s bushy eyebrows crowded together as he read. “Huh. Shave my back and call me an elf, but this mentions elves. Something about carvings that have elves forming an alliance with  the dwarves from Cad’halash thaig after the destruction of Arla... lafa—”

“Arlathan?” Líadan asked.

“That, yes. Must be one of those strange elf things.”

She sighed and wished for greater patience. “Oghren. Arlathan was the _elvhen_ city that the Tevinters buried whole when they destroyed the civilization of my ancestors. Like your lost thaigs, I guess.”

“Yeah, only filled with you swishy elves instead of sturdy dwarves.” He glanced at the message again. “Anyway, this says that what they saw was proof that you nancy elves hid from that Imperium with the dwarves of Cad’halash. Bet you never saw that coming, did you?” The dwarf tugged at his beard as his eyes lit up with a sudden thought. “Hey, wasn’t Shale once from a thaig that sounded like that? Cadash or something or other that we found out after the Blight when Shale and Wynne went looking to see where she was from?”

“Oh! A golem!” Sigrun said. “You really traveled with a golem?”

“Aye. Thing hated birds. Also, turned out that _she_ was a sodding girl dwarf before she became a golem.”

“And she happened to be the most sarcastic golem you will ever meet,” said Líadan. “You have liked her, Nathaniel.”

“I have no idea what you’re insinuating,” he replied.

“Anyway, something you might want to look into at the Shaperate if you ever get a chance, elf,” Oghren said, and then handed her the message. “Maybe you could end up recovering a lost elven thaig. Not sure what that blighter there was doing near Kal’Hirol, though. Cadash thaig is closer to Orzammar.”

“There might have been scholars at Kal’Hirol going over whatever they’d recovered from the carvings,” said Sigrun. 

“True.”

Líadan shrugged. “Maybe we’ll come across something about it at Kal’Hirol. Or, you know, just run into a giant, nasty broodmother.”

“I wasn’t aware there were any other kinds of broodmothers,” said Anders.

Sigrun started forward again. “There aren’t.”

“The darkspawn are getting closer,” said Fiona. “Either that or we’re getting closer to them. We need to be on our guard from now on.” Her fingers grasped the staff in her hand more tightly, and her jaw flexed as it set in determination.

As they neared the abandoned dwarven fortress, they stepped from the side road and into a large clearing. It looked almost like it had once been a courtyard outside the entrance of Kal’Hirol. Scattered on the blackened paving stones riddled with the dark taint were several darkspawn bodies, an even mix of genlocks and hurlocks. Oghren kicked at the nearest one. “Looks someone came along and did our job for us.”

“These weren’t here before,” said Sigrun. “And the _feel_ of the darkspawn is—”

“Almost overwhelming,” Líadan and Nathaniel finished for her.

“Something feels very not right,” said Anders.

Líadan heard scraping and skittering noises from the walls around the clearing even as the taint pressed in closer. She shouted a warning to the other Wardens, but the yell was covered by the squelching sound of creatures bursting out of the fleshy sacs that lined the floor and walls. One of the twisted creatures—more twisted than any darkspawn Líadan had ever seen—leapt onto Fiona as the elf had bent to read one of the dwarven runic inscriptions. The impact sent both Fiona and the new darkspawn to the ground as the creature tore at Fiona’s upper body with a mouth filled with ghastly, razor-sharp teeth. Anders shouted in alarm and sent a bolt of lightning that knocked the creature into the wall. Sigrun rolled over and sliced open the creature before it could recover. Then Anders was at Fiona’s side, his hands already glowing with healing energy. 

After a questioning look at Anders, Sigrun stepped back into the edges of the fight with the massed crowd of darkspawn abominations. Líadan noticed that they were clumped together and advanced on the Wardens as one writhing mass. Mhairi and Oghren stood at the front of the line, his axe and her sword and shield cutting off various pieces of the creatures that got too close. But if the darkspawn managed to swarm at the same time, Líadan knew they would easily be overwhelmed. While she didn’t have any group spells, she knew that Anders and Fiona did, and she looked over to where Anders was helping Fiona to her feet. The elven woman waved the other mage away, though she leaned heavily on her staff for support. Anders gave her one last dubious look, and then trotted forward to where the two warriors were standing their ground. Nathaniel exchanged glances with Líadan then he dropped back to stay near Fiona, all without breaking his steady stream of arrows.

“Everyone back unless you want a new hairstyle by fire,” Anders said. Once the others fell back, he cast a fireball spell into the middle of the surging crowd of darkspawn. He went to cast another spell and when nothing happened, he turned to Líadan. “Lyrium?”

Líadan grabbed one out of a pouch and tossed it toward Anders. One of the darkspawn jumped onto her right as she released it. The lyrium potion got knocked sideways and flew into the fireball instead of at Anders. As Líadan crossed her gauntleted hands and arms over her face and wrestled with the creature to keep its gnashing teeth at bay, she heard a sizzle and then a small explosion followed by a surge of heat. Then the screams hit—guttural screams that struck her ears like hot pokers—along with the stench of burning corrupted flesh.

A battleaxe swooped downward and sliced into the creature on top of Líadan. The momentum sent the creature flying in a slowly tumbling bloody arc. It squealed once when it landed on the hard ground, and then went still. Líadan slowly sat up, surveying the damage from whatever explosion had occurred. Explosion? She rubbed at her eyes, barely noticing the scratches and gouges on her armor that’d saved her from injury. The strange darkspawn mass burned brightly in front of the Wardens, the twisted flesh popping and crackling as it curled inward and blackened to match the stone underneath. 

Anders gaped at the scene. “Uh, did anyone know that lyrium could do that?”

“No. No, I did not,” said Fiona.

He swiped at the soot on his face as he glanced back at the other mage. “You’d think they would’ve warned us. ‘Oh, by the way, those potions of lyrium you carry around on your person? They could totally explode and kill you. Might want to be careful with them.’That would’ve come in handy to know.”

“If they don’t tell you, it’s another way to cull Thedas of overly adventurous mages,” said Líadan, and then she looked at Fiona. The woman’s chainmail had been shredded by the strange darkspawn, and she could see where Anders had healed long gashes in the other elf’s torso. Her eyes widened as she noticed the telltale dark tendrils of a spreading taint infection. While Líadan had seen many ghouls in her time as a Warden, and many men and women who became tainted through combat with darkspawn, only once had she seen it this early in someone she considered a friend. She looked up from the damage to meet Fiona’s eyes, knowing that her own eyes were filled with trepidation.

“Yes, I know, it’s the taint. But it’s spreading very slowly,” said Fiona. “Even if I did nothing, it would be weeks before it became an issue. It must be remnants of my immunity from before my Calling keeping it at bay.” She gave Líadan a reassuring smile. “We’ll just do a Joining when we get back and extend it to another thirty years or so. I talked to Georg about this happening before we left Weisshaupt. Since I was return to the life of an active Warden, we figured it would happen sooner or later.”

Líadan frowned. “Why is it that my friends who are tainted are always reassuring everyone _else_ that they’re fine?”

“My hauberk has seen better days,” Fiona said as she pulled at the edges of the gaps left by the creature. “That isn’t reassuring.” Her gazed shifted to the burning pile of darkspawn. “Nor are those things, whatever they are. But the taint? Not overly worrisome. I’ve already gone through one Joining, so a second shouldn’t be too hard to tolerate.”

“Well, you’ll have to forgive me for not being so blasé about a Joining no matter how many times a person has gone through it,” said Anders. “Must be the Weisshaupt in you or something.” He frowned for a moment as he studied Fiona, and then cast a rejuvenation spell on her. 

Fiona shrugged, even as she was able to stand normally due to the effects of Anders’ spell. “When you’ve been surrounded by the taint as long as I have, I guess you grow a little used to it. Or, at least, not so shocked by it.” She looked over at Sigrun. “Can you bring us from here to where you last saw the Legion?”

After Sigrun gave the burning darkspawn a wary glance, she nodded and waved the other Wardens forward. The group cautiously picked their way through the fortress, changing their course several times to engage with small pockets of darkspawn over large groups. They came across one small party of darkspawn hacking apart one of the newer types of darkspawn, viciously stomping it into an unidentifiable mess. One darkspawn, whom Líadan assumed to be the leader, gave the battered corpse a nasty kick and said something like ‘these children be abominations.’ Líadan didn’t disagree, and actually felt somewhat bad when they went ahead and killed the helpful darkspawn afterward. Couldn’t be helped, though. Darkspawn were darkspawn and had to die. She felt even more badly about killing the guy when they stumbled across another party of darkspawn fighting off the strange ‘children’ as the children tried to _eat_ them. The elf paid extra attention to total destruction when she set fire to fleshy, corrupted filth and sacs on the walls and floor that seemed to hatch the children. 

“You know, I never thought I’d end up cheering for the darkspawn at all,” said Anders, “but, I think I’m picking the side where they don’t agree with making those _things_.”

“I’m with you on that, Sparklefingers,” said Oghren.

Fiona came to an abrupt halt and held out her hand. “Broodmothers,” she said. “There’s more than one. Not just the Mother.”

“We need to kill them,” said Nathaniel.

“Yes.” Fiona looked at Sigrun. “I can take the lead from here, I think, unless there’s a passage blocked off. But I can pinpoint where they are. There’s three of them in a clump, and then another off further away. I bet that one is the Mother.” She frowned. “Though with three broodmothers, I’m not sure how only seven of us can take them out if the other darkspawn swarm.”

“They might not be too inclined to help defend the broodmothers if they’re the things producing the children,” said Anders, nearly spitting out the word ‘children.’

Fiona started down one of the passages. “I certainly hope that’s the case.”

Tentacles bursting out of the ground told them when they were close, because even though the tug of the taint was burning within them, they couldn’t seem to find the broodmothers. “Oh, they would be underneath us,” said Mhairi. “Of all the luck.”

In thought, Sigrun tapped at her chin. “If I correctly remember the plans that my commanding officer had us memorize, there’s a place where Kal’Hirol used to dump lava. So, there should be an opening where we can see below if we can find that place.”

“Not sure what good that’ll do us,” said Oghren.

“Hey, it’s something.”

Oghren grunted.

Sigrun took the lead and brought them to another large chamber, but not so large as the one outside the massive gates of the fortress. In the middle stood the hole Sigrun had talked about, with an old, metal contraption of some kind chained above it. “I guess we won’t be channeling any lava,” she said as she glared up at the ruins. “I think the broodmothers are down there, though. But I’m... I’m afraid to look too closely. What if one of those creatures is someone I once knew?” Then stone-like determination appeared in her light eyes. “I owe it to them if it is one of them.” She knelt and peeked through a hole in the floor as wide as a human man was tall. Her heavily tattooed face paled. “I know them all,” she whispered.

Líadan started forward so she could reach Sigrun, but halfway there another tentacle shot up and sent her sprawling. She growled as she jumped to her feet, lashing out with the bladed end of her staff and cutting the top off the retreating tentacle. “That’s for being a pain in the arse,” she told the offending appendage, and then finished her walk to her fellow Warden. 

“We have to figure out a way to kill them,” Sigrun said when Líadan stood next to her. “We have to end it for them. They can’t be allowed to live like this.”

She placed a reassuring hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “I know.”

“Hmm.” Anders peeked through the hole in the stones, shuddered, and then looked away. “I think I have an idea. How much lyrium do we have left?” Without waiting for an answer, he shucked off his pack and started digging out the potions he carried. 

The others followed suit, as even the non-mages carried lyrium potions to help spread the load evenly between the group. Soon enough, they had a sizable pile stacked next to the hole. “I hope you’re going somewhere with this,” said Nathaniel. 

“Do you not remember what happened earlier?” Anders asked. “You know, that whole part where _one_ lyrium potion exploded and killed all those children-things? Just think of how a whole _pile_ of lyrium will react!”

 “Seems quite a risk, using a volatile material like that.”

“Well, unless you’ve got a better idea, this is all we have. It isn’t like we have a choice about just _leaving_ them, because we aren’t.”

Nathaniel sighed and added the lyrium from his pack to the pile. “I suppose this will have to do, then. What is your exact plan? We’ll need to act fast before more tentacles come flying up and obliterate the entire floor.”

“Um, the most in-depth planning I got to was to toss all our lyrium down there, and then cast a really big fireball spell right onto it. Big explosion followed by a ton of burning fire. Should do the trick.” Anders frowned. “I think.”

A tentacle burst upward and knocked Mhairi over again, supporting Nathaniel’s advice to hurry. “Do it,” said Fiona. “We still need to take care of the Mother, so move quickly.”

The Wardens surrounded the opening after gathering lyrium potions into their arms, and when Anders told them to, they dropped the potions into the hole. Then they stepped aside while Anders and Fiona both cast fireballs downward. Nothing happened for a few seconds, and then the ground rattled and shook. Cracks started forming and the Wardens hastily retrieved their packs and ran, Sigrun leading the way to solid ground. A few minutes later, there was a roar as the stones tumbled downward and landed on the burning carcasses of the broodmothers. Líadan felt the slight lessening of the taint’s pressure as each broodmother died, and she sighed in relief. Then she remembered that there was still one left—the Mother. And now they were completely out of lyrium potions. She cursed rapidly in Elvish, bringing a curious look from Fiona. “We still have the Mother to deal with and we’re out of lyrium,” Líadan explained.

“Both of us can fight without magic,” Fiona said. “You’re much better than I am, by far, but it’s something. Though I suppose Anders will just have to stand around and cheer us on.”

Sigrun snorted, some of the color having returned to her face after the destruction of the broodmothers that had once been her fellow Legionnaires. 

“I could also stand around and look pretty,” said Anders. Then he idly brushed at his grime-covered robes. “Admittedly, not as prettily as usual. The Deep Roads do that to you.”

“You’re preening in the Deep Roads. I hadn’t even realized that was possible,” said Nathaniel. “Have you no sense of decorum?”

“Nope. None at all. Wait! Yes, some. More than Oghren.”

Oghren let out a loud burp. “That isn’t saying much. Come on, let’s go see about that Mother so we can get out of this sodding graveyard.”

Between Sigrun and Fiona, they managed to find their way to the chamber the Mother had hidden herself in. The room was nearly again as large as the one where they’d just collapsed the floor, but this room had walls smoothly lined with stone that glowed with lyrium veins. Líadan felt the magic rolling off the broodmother before they had even passed into the room itself. When they caught sight of the Mother, Mhairi gasped. “Andraste save us.”

“I doubt your Andraste would’ve been a fan of this kind of creature,” said Oghren. “I sure as Stone don’t like it. And that’s even with all those breasts. I mean, sure, I’m more of a rump-man myself, but—”

“Shut it, dwarf,” said Líadan as she stared at the broodmother even though she didn’t want to. This one had once been human. Every other broodmother they’d come across before had been dwarven.

“No, you don’t understand,” said Mhairi. “When the king taught me templar skills, other abilities came with them, such as being able to sense abominations and demons.” She gestured toward the undulating broodmother. “That thing is an actual abomination. There’s a demon in it. Her. It. Whatever.”

“With that many breasts, it’s a her,” said Oghren.

Líadan ignored Oghren’s comment. “So there’s a... that’s a darkspawn _and_ a demon?”

“Twice cursed by the Maker. No wonder she’s got such anger issues,” said Anders.

Nathaniel nocked an arrow. “I wonder what kind of demon. Can you tell, Mhairi?”

“No. I guess different demons have different abilities, though. Rage demons have fire, sloth demons put you to sleep, things like that.”

The Mother snapped her teeth at them, and then cackled, her flesh jiggling with the vibrations. “Now the pieces fall into place!” she said to them. “The Grey Wardens come, the instruments of the Father. Oh, and the Father, he is but a shadow lurking in the far distance. It is no matter, he is no threat. My children, how they serve me. How they love me! Some have already gone to find the Father. You cannot catch them!”

Líadan shrugged, not really concerned if the Mother’s minions managed to kill the Architect. That creepy emissary and the Mother’s spawn could fight each other all they wanted, because it meant they weren’t actively trying to find and taint Morrigan and the Old God child. “So?” she said. “We don’t much care about the Architect, or the Father, or whatever you want to call him, in case you haven’t noticed.”

The Mother smiled, a wicked, twisted imitation of what a smile in a non-darkspawn was, and of what her smile might once have been. “Ah, but perhaps the Wardens would like to hear how it was the Father who began the Blight?”

“We already know that part,” said Líadan. She wondered if this was how Malcolm felt whenever he let his sarcasm out, which, now that she thought about it, was an awful lot. But she just didn’t _care_. She wanted this abomination dead and gone so that she could get out of these Creators-forsaken Deep Roads and back to the surface. “So tell us something we don’t know or just get to business.”

“Yes, goad the giant, powerful darkspawn, that’s a remarkable idea,” said Nathaniel.

“Remarkably _bad_ ,” said Anders. “And why is it that all the darkspawn can talk now?”

Fiona shushed them.

“Did you know how lonely the Father was?” asked the Mother. “How terrible it was for him to be the outcast, the outsider? He found me, another outsider. Curious about me and the demon who shared my body, and so he tainted me. In doing so he gave me the beautiful song, the one I could not hear while trapped in the always-changing Fade. Then... then he changed his mind. He claims he wishes the darkspawn to be free. But what he truly wants is to correct them. He wants to make us like _him_.” She cried out in agony. “He took that beautiful music from us, and left us with _nothing_! I was better off in the Fade!”

“Hey, a demon that regrets invading this side of the Veil,” said Anders. “Never thought I’d see that. Bet you the demon didn’t, either.” He looked from the other Wardens to directly at the broodmother. “We could send you back to the Fade, you know. Happily.”

A sickly laugh bubbled out of the Mother’s throat while her tentacles snapped and waved in the air around her. “And so it must end. It all comes crashing down! Oh, perhaps we will hear the song again when we die! Oh, let it come! Let it come!” The tentacles whipped out and the Mother’s mouth split open four ways and bellowed an unearthly scream. A wave of strange power surged out of the Mother and hit Anders, sending him to the ground.

Nathaniel started firing arrows as Mhairi and Oghren ran forward and attacked the broodmother head-on. Sigrun dodged several tentacles as she ran to Anders and helped him to his feet. “Well, we know what kind of demon it is now,” he said as Líadan and Fiona gave him questioning looks. “Pride demon. That’s the only demon that can drain mana.”

“A demon _would_ be a sort-of templar,” Líadan said. Then she turned and fired off a bolt of lightning that stopped the tentacle heading for Oghren’s feet. 

More shrieks sounded around them and children burst out of their fleshy sacs in a massed attack. As they swarmed, Fiona sent out a wave of cold, freezing most of them. A few—mutated kinds with sharp, spindly arms and legs—escaped. One of them blindsided Nathaniel and speared one of its spiked appendages into the top of his boot, through his foot, and into the ground. Then the creature bit Nathaniel’s bow, snapping it in half as the Warden shouted in pain. Sigrun rolled over and her spinning double axes cut the darkspawn in two. Then she went from frozen creature to frozen creature, shattering them before Fiona’s spell wore off. 

Another scream caught their attention and they turned to see Mhairi caught up by one of the larger tentacles. It squeezed and the Wardens all heard ribs cracking and splintered bones grinding together. Oghren swore and spun, his axe swinging in a wide arc that sliced the tentacle and sent Mhairi tumbling to the ground.

“Forget about me,” Nathaniel said to Fiona. “Mhairi needs you more.”

Anders cursed at his lack of mana and lyrium as he helped Nathaniel remove the strange spike of a darkspawn leg from the archer’s foot. Líadan left the two men behind as she moved forward to protect Fiona as she went to work on Mhairi. The warrior’s chest had an odd, caved-in look about it, and Fiona’s brow glistened with sweat from whatever magic she was pouring into the other woman. Líadan cast her best arcane shield around them and hoped it would hold.

The Mother laughed and another tentacle snaked out and caught Oghren by the leg, sending him to the stones underfoot. He landed an awkward angle and Líadan heard a snap. 

“Sodding nug-licker!” Oghren shouted, and lifted his arm to show his left hand dangling uselessly. “What do I use to fight now? My beard?”

“Well, your beard is fairly impressive,” Líadan said. 

“Use this,” said Sigrun, who then tossed the other dwarf one of her axes. 

Oghren scoffed and held the axe—a third the size of his own battleaxe—as if it would re-taint him if he held it properly. “This is like a nuglet’s toy!”

“Better than nothing,” said Líadan. She handed one of her daggers to Sigrun so the dwarf  could still wield two weapons and not have to change her style mid-battle like almost everyone else. “Unless you really want to use your beard.”

“Braids aren’t sharp enough,” Oghren replied, and then hefted the axe properly. “This will have to do for now.” He looked over at Fiona, who was helping an ashen-faced Mhairi sit up. “Unless you can do anything to heal my wrist?”

“It took all I had to heal Mhairi,” Fiona said.

“Sod this,” said Sigrun. “This bitch helped turn my friends into broodmothers. It ends now.” With that, the dwarf turned and ran straight at the broodmother. She didn’t stop to hack at any of the tentacles, nor did she stop to set herself up in front of the darkspawn to deliver a blow from there. Instead, she ran halfway up the Mother’s front, planted her feet against two of the Mother’s many breasts, and leapt with her axe held out in front of her. When she landed, the axe bit straight into the Mother’s face, splitting it with a crack they felt in their bodies and burying the blade far into the brain. 

As the other Wardens watched, Sigrun stabbed the dagger into the Mother’s heart and twisted it, just to make sure. After a moment of stillness from the broodmother, where there was no sign of breathing or magic or anything else and the taint receded, Sigrun removed the axe and the dagger and wiped them clean. Then she clambered off the broodmother and faced her fellow Wardens. “She’s dead. Let’s go home.”

They burned everything, and then headed for the surface.


	53. Chapter 53

**Chapter 53**

“Rage, hunger, sloth, desire, pride: These are the dark parts of the soul that give demons their power, their hooks they use to claw their way into the world of the living. It was demons that whispered into the minds of men, convincing them to turn from the Maker and worship false gods. They seek to possess all life as their due, forging kingdoms of nightmare in the Fade in the hopes of one day storming the walls of Heaven itself.

And the Maker despaired once again, for He had given the power of creation to his new children—and in return they had created sin.”

—from _The Maker’s First Children_ by Bader, Senior Enchanter of Ostwick, 8:12 Blessed

**Malcolm**

Gunnar growled at the crow.

The crow squawked once at the mabari, opened its wings, and then took to the air. It flew a tight circle above Malcolm’s head and squawked a couple more times before flying away to the northwest. He watched it go, but felt no compulsion to follow. Then he realized he was an idiot for even considering not trying to just swim straight back to Highever. Morrigan would do what Morrigan would do, and soon enough she would be fairly unable to maintain an itinerant lifestyle. He could look for her then. Besides that, he had other obligations, other responsibilities, other _promises_ that he’d made. He’d left one mostly broken and in a few pieces back in Ferelden, but if he could return in a decent amount of time, it could be fixed.

If Líadan didn’t kill him first.

With a sigh, he turned and started walking into the city. He recalled seeing a chantry on their last visit. He certainly remembered the templars glaring at Líadan and Fiona on their way through. Maybe the Chanter’s Board would have a simple job that’d pay enough to buy him passage back to Ferelden. He could do that and be on his way possibly by tomorrow. It was early yet. He’d even managed to avoid making a monumentally stupid decision before lunch. Of course, with lunch being some more of the trail rations Astrid had stored in her pack, that meal could end up being a fairly long time away. 

As Malcolm strode towards the chantry, the mabari trotting at his side drew a few appreciative looks, and more than a few people crossed to the other side of the street out of fear. Gunnar gave those people his peculiar doggy grin, which only served to scare them more. Malcolm smiled at his dog, amused that grown men and women, armed and armored, were afraid of the mabari. That’d teach them to make fun of Ferelden and its dogs. Other people, ones who weren’t enraptured by the mabari, noted the griffon heraldry on his cloak and gave him reserved nods or a curious lifted brow in his direction. The templars standing outside the chantry doors didn’t acknowledge him, but he wasn’t offended by it. 

The Chanter’s Board, however, had no jobs that would take less than a week to do. That idea was out, then. He didn’t have a week. He needed to be back in Highever three days ago, not sometime in the upcoming fortnight. Stuck in a foreign city without a copper to his name, not knowing anyone... wait. This wasn’t the Blight. All the Grey Wardens in Nevarra hadn’t died at Ostagar. He almost smacked himself in the forehead for not thinking of it sooner. He could just find the Cumberland Grey Warden compound and get help from them.

He turned to one of the templars and asked him in Orlesian for directions to the Warden compound. The man gave him an odd look and glanced pointedly at the heraldry on his cloak. Malcolm rolled his eyes. “I’m Fereldan. I haven’t been to the compound here before. Can you please tell me where it is?”

“Ah, yes, of course,” the templar replied in heavily accented Fereldan. And then the man launched into a complicated explanation on how to get to the compound that involved a lot of hand waving in various directions. With the thickness of the man’s accent, Malcolm figured it would’ve been easier to understand the man if he’d stuck to his unaccented Orlesian. It was quite irritating that the templar insisted on using Fereldan, even though Malcolm had asked his original question in acceptable Orlesian. That was, unless Leliana had totally lied to him and his accent actually _was_ horrible. The man had finished his explanation and looked at Malcolm expectantly.

“Um, thank you,” Malcolm replied. 

The templar nodded and resumed his Chantry duties of dutifully standing around.

Malcolm signaled to Gunnar and headed off in the first direction the templar had told him. It took him well over an hour, judging by the movement of the sun, to finally find the compound. A dwarven woman wearing leathers stood just outside the front doors of the building, speaking quietly with two humans and an elf. All were armed, armored, and wearing Grey Warden tabards. The group turned as one when he approached. To his surprise, he recognized the dwarf. “Hildur?”

She peered at him for a moment, and then her eyes widened in recognition. “Malcolm!” Then she clasps wrists with him before pointedly looking around. “You’ve got your mabari, I see. Where’s your other shadow?”

“I’m sorry?”

Hildur arched an eyebrow. “Your better half?” When he continued to give her a puzzled look, she sighed. “You know, female Dalish elf, tends to be a bit scowly, and is usually right by your side?”

“Ha.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, and then looked around to avoid Hildur’s discerning gaze. “No, she’s still in Ferelden and... probably really pissed at me, now that I think about it.” Incredibly pissed. _Beyond_ pissed maybe, possibly into the realm of really upset and extremely hurt, which would be even worse. Far worse. Maker help him, he was totally screwed when he got back. Or not, as it were.

“You left without saying anything? Again? It’s this thing you do, I take it?”

“I didn’t _plan_ on it.” He shifted his feet and finally met the dwarf’s gaze. “I didn’t have a chance to say anything to anyone. It’s been, I think, possibly the strangest few days in my entire life.” Strange in that he’d killed another person in cold blood a couple days ago out on the Waking Sea, not to mention the entire experience with the Harrowing when he wasn’t a mage, plus there was the _dragon_. Then again, considering his experiences during the Blight, dragons were more on the normal side of daily existence than murder on the high seas. “For one, I’m not supposed to be in Cumberland. At all. I’m supposed to be in Kal’Hirol right about now, I believe.”

Hildur had her mouth halfway open to ask a question, but at the mention of Kal’Hirol, her mouth closed as her eyes squinted. Then she asked, “Kal’Hirol? Why there? Darkspawn or something else?”

“Darkspawn _and_ something else sort of darkspawn related... maybe.” His eyes flicked over to the other Wardens standing a little behind Hildur and listening intently. 

“We were just about to head out to investigate a report about something you might know a bit about, actually,” said Hildur, catching Malcolm’s look.

He frowned and almost took a step back. “Morrigan?” She was the only subject he could fathom that Hildur, or anyone, would immediately associate with him.

“No, not her. Talking darkspawn. We got some reports about them and were heading out to take a look. Since you’ve been dealing with talking darkspawn in Ferelden, you might be of some help.”

“Oh, right, the talkative ones. Exciting, really.” Malcolm glanced at the road behind him that led to the harbor. “But, I need to get back.”

The dwarf motioned for the other three Wardens to start down the street leading to the city gates, as they had been watching Hildur and Malcolm far too closely. “You have time to help with this investigation. It won’t take long and Cumberland isn’t so far away from Highever by ship. You’ll be back before you know it.”

He shifted his weight from foot to foot and reluctantly looked back at Hildur. “You don’t understand. They don’t know I’m _gone_.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Hildur’s mouth. “You’re saying they wouldn’t notice your absence?”

That hadn’t come out right. They must know he was gone; the question was if they knew if he’d gone voluntarily or not. He wasn’t quite sure which was worse, because either scenario would cause distress and make people upset. It would also affect whether or not if certain people would try to kill him when he returned. “Oh, I’m sure they’ve noticed. Líadan is going to _kill_ me. And that’s if I’m lucky.” She was. There wouldn’t be any sort of finishing what they’d started the morning of the Harrowing, because she would be far, far too busy murdering him for leaving. And, he realized, he kind of deserved it.

Hildur laughed. “Come on. We’ll be back before sundown.”

“I said that once before, you know. It didn’t quite work out that way, unless I’d meant I’d be back before sundown two weeks later. Which I hadn’t. I had honestly meant to return to the castle before full night, but no. Not so much.” He was walking next to Hildur as he talked, already resigned to helping the other Wardens with whatever darkspawn-related task they needed to complete. He couldn’t exactly go asking for coin to get home without bothering to help, could he? Well, not if the Order overlooked that whole having helped stop a sodding Blight thing. Which was what they were apparently doing, as evidenced by Hildur ignoring his objections. 

His stomach growled. “Andraste’s flaming sword,” he said, and then sighed. “You don’t happen to have any food that you’d be willing to share, do you? And by food I mean emphatically _not_ hardtack or jerky. In fact, cheese would be fantastic. Bread would be absolutely divine.”

Hildur snorted, but motioned towards her pack. “There’s a chunk of Nevarran cheese and I think half a loaf of day old bread on the top that’s leftover from my breakfast, if you want it. Of course, accepting it means you have to come with us and not complain about it.”

He happily dug the food out of her pack while they walked. “Fine. And yes, I’m that easy.” Gunnar barked in agreement and Malcolm rolled his eyes at the dog. “Just for that, I’m not sharing with you.” He ignored the immediate whine and puppy eyes.

“So what brought you to Cumberland?”

“Not so much as a what, but a who. It was Astrid.”

“ _Astrid_? As in the missing former Second Warden?” Hildur looked behind them, as if searching for this mysterious woman. “If she brought you here, where is she now?”

 _Floating somewhere on the Waking Sea, I imagine._ “Um... not here?”

“You’re a horrible liar.”

“I’m not lying, not exactly. More like evading the complete truth. I mean, she’s obviously not here. Also not in Cumberland. I don’t think.” _Depends on where her body eventually washes up_ , he thought. “She could be, but you wouldn’t be able to talk to her. Maybe in the Fade. Oh, except you’re a dwarf and Oghren told me that you lot don’t go to the Fade. So, if you’ve things to say to her, I think you might be out of luck.” He quickly took a large bite of the bread to avoid having to say anything more.

“She’s dead, then? If I’m understanding correctly, which I’m fairly certain I am.” He nodded as he carefully chewed the bread, and Hildur nodded back. Then she said, “I’m not sure that’s necessarily a _bad_ thing. We know where she went. We’d been chasing rumors of Marius in Tevinter until Georg told me to find Astrid. Last we heard were reports from Val Royeaux saying that there was a Grey Warden advising the Divine on a critical situation involving a dangerous maleficar. Of course we assumed it was Astrid, since all other Wardens are not only accounted for, but aren’t as briefed on the situation as she was, or the rest of us who are in the know.”

Malcolm finished his bite of bread. “Marius is dead. I saw him in the Fade.”

The same brief, sorrowful look he’d seen on Astrid’s face drifted across Hildur’s at hearing the news. Hildur’s reaction gave credence to the fact that there had been some sort of human warmth in Astrid. Warmth that he’d killed, quite literally. “That’s too bad. He was a good man. A good warrior.” The dwarf frowned. “How did you speak to him in the Fade? In a dream?”

“Um, sort of. You see, Astrid not only told the Divine about Morrigan, she _also_ let slip that my mother was a mage. Because the Divine apparently really wanted to talk to me, she decided to declare me an apostate based on just that.” Malcolm then explained to Hildur about what happened with the Harrowing, how he’d proven not to be a mage, but how that had come at the cost of Velanna’s life. “Anyway,” he finished saying, “Astrid assumed that the templars would fail and showed up at Highever. She made sure to find me when I was out wandering alone—”

“Because you have a tendency to do that,” Hildur said.

“Hey, that time I’d told people I was heading out. And, for your information, I was searching for a proper place to bury Velanna’s ashes. So there. Do you want me to finish my story or not?”

The dwarf turned, narrowed her light eyes at him, and then smirked. “You realize you sounded like your mother right then, don’t you?”

“Fine. You know what? Just for that, I’m not telling you the rest of the story no matter how much you need to know. I’ll write a letter and send a messenger to Georg and you can find out weeks later from him.”

Hildur snorted. “You’re only making it worse when you react like that, because that’s exactly something she would do. And, you will tell me what happened, because I’ve noticed you’re entirely lacking in a coinpurse, and you need to get home. To do that, you need coin. As it happens, I have the coin you need. Which I will give you, if you go on this little excursion, _and_ tell me what happened with Astrid.” The smirk dropped away as her face became serious. “All joking aside, I really do need to know. A Warden’s death is fairly significant, as you well know.”

 _Yes, I do know. I really do_. “All right. Just...” he trailed off and sighed. “Can I tell you the story later? Once we’re back at the compound, I mean. It’s one _I_ need to be sitting down to tell, not to mention you might want to sit down to hear.” _And be unarmed if you want to kill me for killing Astrid_. He was fairly certain Hildur wouldn’t approve of what he’d done. He certainly didn’t.

“That’s fine, just so long as you tell me. Besides, there’s other gossip you can relay to me now that I have a chance to talk to you.”

It was his turn to narrow his eyes at her. “Gossip? What gossip? I don’t know any gossip.”

“Well, not exactly gossip since it wouldn’t be chatted about around boring Weisshaupt—seriously, you’ve no idea how wonderful it’s been to be out of the Anderfels—but it’s certainly something I’m curious about.”

“Fiona and I are fine. We talked a little. I’m sure we’ll talk more, but it’s slow going. It’s all fraught with all sorts of the scary kind of emotions. Not like abject fear or absolute terror, but the strange vulnerable kind that leaves you wanting to face a horde of darkspawn instead.” Though it hadn’t been so bad the last time they’d talked. He understood her decision to leave him and Alistair with Maric, even if he still wished that Alistair had had a mother in his life like he had with Eleanor Cousland. But he did recognize that Fiona hadn’t abandoned them, not exactly. She’d done her best to make sure they were cared for, and she’d kept up with how they were doing in their lives. Her anger at Arl Eamon had certainly proven that she still cared deeply, however separated she’d been from them for most of their lives. “But we have plenty of time.”

Hildur smirked again, but held off her reply since they were exiting the city through one of the four main gates. Guards gave them respectful nods as they went by, eyes automatically catching on their griffon heraldry. The other three Wardens were still walking ahead of them, maintaining a far enough distance to they wouldn’t be eavesdropping. Except, Malcolm noticed, perhaps the elf. But the Wardens were immersed in a conversation of their own, so most likely they wouldn’t be paying attention. Different from earlier in the city, when they’d been unabashedly listening in. Once they were a decent distance from the gates, Hildur said, “That wasn’t what I was talking about.”

“Then what were you talking about?”

Ahead of them, the other three Wardens broke off the road and started into the forest. Hildur pointed, and then both she and Malcolm followed, Malcolm ducking under branches while Hildur easily strode under them. “The elf.”

“Fiona _is_ an elf. Pointy ears and everything.”

Hildur muttered something under her breath that Malcolm didn’t catch. Then she said, “Líadan. You two dive in the dark yet?”

“What?”

“Ride the bucking bronto. Polish the stones. Sauce the nug. Explore your deep roads. Flop the dust. Pass the—”

“No! I don’t even... what... no! Maker’s breath, you’re as bad as Oghren.” His cheeks flamed and he refused to look in Hildur’s direction. Especially when he heard her start giggling. Were all dwarves this bad? No. He couldn’t recall Sigrun being like this. 

“Why haven’t you? Don’t have the stones to say something? Well, she has more stones than you, so I’m more surprised that she hasn’t mentioned anything.”

“I... No, I don’t know what...” he trailed off and stared resolutely forward. “If you must know, we... there was... well, almost.”

“Almost?”

He wondered exactly how red his face was now, considering it felt like his cheeks were burning off. “Things were going along well and there no shirts and—why am I even telling you this?—and, well, templars showed up. The end.”

“Templars? Oh, this I’ve _got_ to hear.”

Malcolm peered down at her. “You already heard it. That was everything. And it will probably _be_ everything since I’m in Cumberland and didn’t tell anyone that I was going and I sort of promised her I wouldn’t do that again.”

Hildur pursed her lips for a moment as she thought. “Yes. Yes, I have to agree, you’re probably in a lot of trouble. I’d even consider recommending that you don’t go back, but she’d track you down and it would be worse for you. If you want, once I’ve heard what happened, I can try to give you better advice.” She grinned up at him. “Your face is the best red color ever! I didn’t realize you could get a human to flush that deeply.”

“You know, I’m starting to suspect that you’re related to Oghren. And that wasn’t a compliment, either. Just saying.”

The dwarf burst into sudden laughter and patted him on the arm. “Now I’m starting to see why Riordan was so insistent about keeping you around. In fact—” She broke off and tilted her head to the side. “Darkspawn.”

“Where?” Then he felt the tug as well, to the south. A decent number of darkspawn, possibly with some heavy-hitters, emissaries or maybe ogres. Hildur didn’t answer his question, as Malcolm had already drawn his sword and started running towards the darkspawn, Gunnar next to him, and Hildur right behind him with her daggers out. They plunged out of the forest and into a clearing filled with darkspawn. The other Wardens had already engaged one of the three ogres, while some sort of emissary shouted from the middle of the field at the other darkspawn. “Looks like those reports were right,” Malcolm said to Hildur, and then he surveyed the clearing again, noticing they weren’t the only ones fighting the darkspawn. “What are those? Are those _qunari_?”

“Yes. Now smite that emissary and let’s kill some darkspawn. It’s been ages for me!” Hildur then darted into the shadows while Malcolm summoned a smite and knocked the emissary to his back. 

As Malcolm waded into the fray, intent on reaching the emissary before it could get back up, he cursed as he realized that he still didn’t have a shield. Then he didn’t have time for much more than grunts and swears as hurlocks formed between him and the emissary. One of the other Wardens somehow appeared at his side and helped clear the path with him and Gunnar. Together, they reached the emissary as he rose to his feet, using his staff for support. “You! You be the one the Mother spoke of! You know where the witch is!” he said, practically throwing the words at Malcolm. 

“Haven’t a clue, actually,” Malcolm said. Then he swung his sword and cut the emissary’s staff in half, sending the darkspawn back to the grass. Malcolm reversed his grip on the sword, drove it into the darkspawn’s chest, and then twisted. As he pulled his sword from the emissary, the ground trembled as an ogre lumbered closer. On the far side of the field, two qunari in plate armor shouted war cries in their strange-sounding tongue as an ogre ripped one of their men in half. Another was smashed under the feet of a second ogre when three hurlocks pressed in around him and he couldn’t find room to maneuver away. 

Malcolm glanced back at the third ogre, where the elven Warden had been taunting it and Hildur had climbed up onto its back. He looked just in time to see the dwarf jam her daggers into either side of the darkspawn’s head. “One ogre down,” he said to himself. The hurlocks had thinned to a few stragglers, and he was able to see the opposite side of the field even better. A third qunari had fallen, and now only one remained. The ogre swiped at the qunari and the man managed to spear his sword through the ogre’s open hand. It grasped its hand in pain and roared before bashing it on a rock. The sword snapped in half and slid out of his palm. The qunari bellowed a cry that sounded almost mournful, and then leapt at the ogre. By that time, Hildur, the elven Warden, and one of the human Wardens had engaged the ogre as well. As the ogre shook the qunari off, sending him sailing into a rock, one Warden cut at the back of the ogre’s knee and sent him to the ground. The other jumped on the ogre’s back and delivered the killing blow.

Then it was over. Malcolm frowned at the size of the group they’d encountered, as he hadn’t come across a party of this size since the blight. Especially not with three ogres _and_ an emissary. Hildur told the Wardens to start rolling the bodies together so they could burn them, and then she walked over to Malcolm. “What’d that emissary have to say? I couldn’t hear him from where I was busy killing his overly tall bosom-buddy over there.”

“He apparently knew me. Wanted to know where Morrigan was because obviously I have that information and I’m totally holding it back from everyone.”

Hildur shot him a mock surprised look. “You mean you aren’t?”

“Very funny.” He caught movement on the far side of the field near the large boulder. “Is that qunari who got thrown still alive?”

The dwarf squinted in the direction Malcolm was looking. “Possibly. Come on. I’ve met qunari before. They’re actually not so bad. Very stoic, but not that bad once you get used to it.”

They found the qunari man kneeling next to the boulder with the two pieces of his sword spread on the ground at his knees. His hands hovered over the pieces of metal, shaking like it was the body of a dead comrade they couldn’t bring themselves to touch. Malcolm recognized the body language and the look on the man’s face—for some reason, it was like how he’d reacted to Líadan when she’d been injured at Drake’s Fall, but for a sword. The qunari murmured what sounded like a chant in his language, and as Malcolm listened, he felt the taint start to spread in the qunari’s body. It was small and slow, but there. He glanced over at Hildur, who nodded. She’d sensed the same. Then she looked at the man mourning his sword. “Qunari. I am Hildur of the Grey Wardens. How are you addressed?”

The qunari shifted his gaze from his sword’s remains to the Wardens standing over him. “Sten of the Beresaad.” Then he glanced at a wound on his right arm, where it looked like an ogre had bitten him. “I am tainted, am I not?”

“Yes,” Hildur said. 

“Fitting. I have lost my sword. Even without the taint, I am already dead. Were I to return to Seheron, the Antaam would kill me on sight. The taint will take me as the darkspawn took my sword.”

Malcolm opened his mouth to ask why losing a sword made the man dead, but Hildur signaled him to silence with an upraised hand.

“You are a warrior, are you not?” the dwarf asked.

“Yes.”

“Since when do qunari waste resources? I will make you a Grey Warden and you will survive and fight the darkspawn. It is a worthy cause.”

Sten stared at Hildur as the dwarf stared right back. Then he asked, “You are a Grey Warden?”

“Yes, as I said.”

“And you are a woman?”

Hildur punched the qunari in the jaw, sending him toppling sideways into the grass. Then she produced a dagger, and with a foot firmly planted on the qunari’s chest, touched the tip of the dagger to the man’s neck. “I am a warrior. I have bested you and need not prove myself to you again. Do not question what I am.” She gave the qunari another shove with her foot for emphasis, and then removed her foot from his chest and sheathed her dagger. “Now. You will come with me and become a Grey Warden because you are a resource not to be wasted, as your Qun says.”

Another long moment passed, and then Sten said, “Very well.”

The Wardens, with Sten’s help, finished piling up the darkspawn bodies and set them to burning after gathering a vial of darkspawn blood. Hildur then led the group back to the city, explaining that they would send other Wardens to check on the burn once they got to the compound. As they walked, Hildur peppered the reticent qunari with question after question about how his party had run across the darkspawn. Then she asked him, “What were you doing in Nevarra, anyway?”

“We were sent by the Arishok into these lands to learn the answer to this question: what is Tevinter looking for? We have not found the answer.”

“What made the Arishok ask that question?”

Malcolm raised his eyebrows, impressed at how the dwarf had asked her rather perceptive question. Normally, the qunari were at near-constant war with Tevinter and wouldn’t need to know what they were looking for since they were in their faces all the time. 

“Their troops on the front have diminished to almost nothing,” said the qunari. “They have sent out scouting parties as far south as Ferelden and as far west as the Tirashan. Clearly, they are searching for something important and the qunari people must know what their enemy seeks, for it cannot be good were they to find it.”

 _No,_ Malcolm thought, _no it would not._ When Hildur glanced over at Malcolm and exchanged a look with him, Malcolm realized that he already knew the answer: Morrigan. Tevinter was looking for Morrigan like pretty much every other group and nation on Thedas. Hildur shook her head slightly at Malcolm, informing him to keep his mouth shut. Right. Not giving the man the answer before he went through the Joining. Ever the pragmatic Wardens, making sure to secure the qunari’s oath of service before giving him news that could allow him to possibly return to his homeland without being killed on sight for losing his sword. Except that he was tainted, so he’d die unless he went through a successful Joining. At least withholding the information would keep him from running off, Malcolm supposed.

The Senior Warden of Cumberland greeted them when they entered the compound and immediately sent out a party of six Wardens to check on the darkspawn burn outside the city. He had one of the compound’s servants show Malcolm to a guest room while he and Hildur went off with Sten to the mages and presumably to do the Joining. The servant was kind enough to point out some baths that made use of the dwarven water runes. Malcolm got the hint, as he could tell he was pretty rank after the impromptu shipboard journey followed by a battle with the darkspawn. Then he had to explain that he only had what he was wearing, and the servant made a detour to the quartermaster, who happily outfitted Malcolm with a pack and other necessaries to fill it in exchange for some stories about the Blight. Then the servant showed Malcolm to his room and left him to his own devices. After taking advantage of the baths, Malcolm crashed for a nap on the bed, Gunnar following suit in one of the room’s corners. He woke hours later from a knocks on his door and possibly shouting.

Hildur cracked it open and stuck her head inside. “Oh, good, you’re awake.”

He sighed as he sat up and looked blearily at the dwarf. “You were shouting. Hard to sleep through that. For most people, anyway.”

“Well, dinner’s up, and after watching you scarf down that bread and cheese earlier, I figured you wouldn’t want to miss out. Hurry up before its gone.”

Malcolm didn’t need to be told twice. He slid off the small bed and, out of habit, put on his armor and sword before leaving with Hildur. “Not taking chances again,” he said when she shot him a puzzled look.

She shrugged. “Sten, the qunari, he lived through his Joining. He’s asleep right now, so we’ve probably got a couple hours to chat after dinner. After hearing his news about what the qunari are trying to do, I really need to know what happened with Astrid so I can decide what to do next.”

“I understand.”

The meal went quickly, Malcolm fending off questions about the Blight and the fight with the Archdemon in favor of stuffing his face. The Nevarran fare was a far sight better than anything he’d eaten on the ship, which had mostly been the hardtack and the jerky, something second-only in nastiness to dwarven ale. Dinner over, he and Hildur adjourned to the Senior Warden’s borrowed office so he could tell her what happened without twenty other people interrupting or, Maker forbid, listening. He kept a close eye on where her daggers were sheathed as he explained Astrid finding him in Highever, and then blackmailing him to go see the Divine with her. Then he told her about the storm. “And... she... fell off the ship. Being from the Anderfels, I guess she couldn’t swim.”

Hildur studied him for a moment. “She fell off?”

 _Technically. She had a bit of_ help _, but technically she fell_. “Yes.”

“You remember earlier when I said you were bad at lying?” When he wouldn’t meet her eyes for longer than a second, Hildur braced her forearms on her knees and leaned forward. “Malcolm. Tell me what happened.”

“She let it slip that she hadn’t left anything with the Divine in case something happened with her while she was away. Oh, and that she hadn’t even told the Divine where she was going. She was dangerous with the knowledge and agenda she had. If she’d told the Divine about Alistair and I being full brothers, about Fiona being our mother... Ferelden would be in chaos. There’d be another civil war because there’s no way the Bannorn would accept the bastard son of an elf—even though his father was the king—as their monarch. Forget being able to finish the Thaw and cleaning up after the darkspawn. There would be too much war going on and the Wardens would most likely be kicked out of the country again. Chased out, actually. Between my duty to the Wardens and my duty to Ferelden, I... the danger became very clear. And how to deal with it became more clear on the deck during the storm when Astrid was seasick and clinging precariously to the railing as the waves got bigger and bigger. I—”

“So she drowned at sea,” Hildur said, interrupting him. “Unfortunate accident, I see that now. Georg will be saddened to hear about it.”

The dwarf’s hands hadn’t strayed once towards her daggers. Malcolm finally met her eyes and saw pity and sympathy within them, yet no absolution.


	54. Chapter 54

**Chapter 54**

“Though all before me is shadow,

Yet shall the Maker be my guide.

I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.

For there is no darkness in the Maker’s Light

And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”

— _Canticle of Trials 1:14_

**Alistair**

“It could have been part of the assassination plot on Riordan, you know,” Fergus said to the king as he paced in the teyrn’s study. Riordan and the other Grey Wardens had left for Vigil’s Keep the day before.

Alistair halted and faced Fergus, an inquiring eyebrow raised. “What assassination plot on Riordan? No one told me there was an assassination plot on Riordan.” His brows came down as he frowned. “And why would anyone want to kill Riordan, anyway? If you aren’t a darkspawn, he’s one of the nicest, most fair people I know. Well, a bit of a sneaky bastard at times, but that’s easy to overlook, usually.”

Fergus dropped the paper he’d been holding onto the desktop and sat back. “He’s also Orlesian. Or sounds like an Orlesian, and to most people, that’s the part that matters. Aside from that, there are still banns within the arling’s territory who were very loyal to Rendon Howe. I suspect they also took offense at the Wardens being given the arling.” He sighed. “We should really look into restructuring everything at the next Landsmeet. Malcolm had some really good ideas about what to do, we can ask him when he... right. Back to the assassination plot. There were rumors about it at the fealty ceremony. Riordan hasn’t much been interested in determining the veracity of the rumors. Malcolm’s disappearance might have been opportunistic, kil— _taking_ the prince instead of the Warden Commander because Malcolm was there.” 

“It’s a possibility,” said Eamon from his chair by the fire. He looked more haggard now than he’d been while Alistair was in Drake’s Fall with the Wardens. Alistair had been surprised to find how disturbed Eamon was by the recent developments. He’d honestly believed there was nothing but bad blood between his brother and the arl, but now it appeared differently. And he doubted Eamon was acting the part, since the weariness settled around the man’s eyes wasn’t something that could be faked. Or, he could just be getting more tired at having to remain in his job as chancellor as one crisis so quickly followed another. “It’s also a possibility that the boy simply left.”

And _there_ was the bad blood. Alistair stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “Eamon, he didn’t take anything with him or leave a note. If you’ll remember, last time he took his pack and was polite enough to leave us a letter.”

“He also had a mabari with him. It’s a bit difficult to abduct or kill someone who has a loyal wardog at his side.” Eamon squinted in thought. “You know, you might consider trying to have one imprint on you, your Majesty. It makes sense for the King of Ferelden to have a mabari, in addition to the fact that one would make a good bodyguard.”

“Not if Malcolm is dead, it wouldn’t,” Fergus said.

“Which gives more credence to the idea that he left voluntarily.” Eamon sighed. “I know that you both want to think better of him. You both think he’s grown up in the past months from the boy he was at the beginning of the Blight, or even who he was when he left for Weisshaupt. But we can’t make ourselves blind to the possibility that he hasn’t grown up nearly as much as you had thought.” The fact that Eamon didn’t say ‘we’ in regards to thinking Malcolm had matured didn’t escape Alistair’s notice.

“If he left voluntarily, then he has to have had a very good _reason_ ,” said Fergus. “Not that I particularly care what reason that is, because if—when—he comes back, I think I’m going to kill him myself, just to make sure that he doesn’t do it again.”

“Líadan will kill _you_ if she doesn’t get first crack at him,” Alistair said.

Eamon cleared his throat.

Fergus glared at the arl. “Oh, give it up, will you? Seriously. Sure, Malcolm is the king’s brother, but he isn’t the one you need to pester about getting married and having heirs.” He shot Alistair a sympathetic glance, and then turned back to Eamon. “Let him live his life. Mother and Father were content to let him do that, and I think we should be, too.”

“Circumstances are different now. Cailan is dead,” Eamon said, a wince of sadness passing through his eyes as he admitted aloud again that his nephew had died. “Yes, we have a Theirin king and a brother as a Theirin prince, but both of them are Grey Wardens. Both of them stand a slim chance of having children, and from what Alistair told me, the longer they’ve been Wardens, the more slim their chances of fathering children becomes. If a clear heir for succession isn’t secured, when we lose them there will be civil war over who becomes the next monarch. So having both of them properly married and attempting to have children would raise the chances of a Theirin heir to _slightly_ more than slim.” He glanced pointedly between Fergus and Alistair. “But letting that boy continue whatever it is he’s doing with that elf is—”

“That elf? Really?” Alistair rounded on Eamon. “Did I really just hear you say that? Unless you forget, our _mother_ is an elf. Best you remember that before you refer to Líadan, or anyone, like that. Have you forgotten exactly how much she’s done for Ferelden or did that whole Blight and fighting the archdemon thing somehow slip your mind? She deserves better than that from you.”

The arl shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Of course I haven’t forgotten. If Malcolm wasn’t a prince, I honestly wouldn’t care about in whom he took interest. But the reality is that he is a prince and she is not only an elf, but a Dalish elf. We cannot have him making the same mistakes as his father.”

This time, Alistair did roll his eyes. “Yes, well, one of Maric’s two ‘mistakes’ is the current King of Ferelden, as you mentioned earlier. So maybe what mistakes he made weren’t so bad after all. Besides, if the two of them ever... got together, as it were, you wouldn’t have to worry about any mistakes like Malcolm or me. One Warden makes having a child difficult. Two? Nearly impossible. You wouldn’t have to worry about any more elf-blooded bastards.”

Eamon pinched the bridge of his nose. “I think the Bannorn would be fine even with bastards as this point, given that they were clearly Theirins and entirely human.”

“Elf-blooded _is_ human,” said Alistair.

“You know what I meant.”

“So basically what you’re saying is that you’re fine with Malcolm not being married and becoming involved with someone, as long as the woman was human?” A strange double-standard, it seemed. Or maybe not so much, as Malcolm wasn’t stuck being king like he was. 

“And preferably not a mage. I’m not saying I would be happy about it. I would prefer that he marry because it makes legitimization a non-factor. At this point, however, we cannot be as picky as we used to be. There need to be more Theirins, and as of right now, the two of you are it.”

“It could be _one_ Theirin right now and we wouldn’t even know it,” said Fergus, sounding testy instead of his easygoing self. “How about we concentrate on what happened to him and argue about succession later?” When both Eamon and Alistair fell silent, Fergus nodded. “Excellent. We should send someone down to Highever to do some questioning around the harbor. If he left, either voluntarily or involuntarily, it might not have been by land. Malcolm and Alistair are fairly recognizable, so someone might have seen him. I don’t like the idea any better than you do, Alistair, that Malcolm might have left of his own volition, but Eamon is right. We can’t ignore the possibility in the hope that he hasn’t. In fact, I might as well be the one to go down to the harbor since I know who to talk to.”

“I’d like to go with you,” said Alistair. “I don’t have to say anything and I can wear my hood up or something. I already can’t be on any of the search teams, but I want to do something other than wait around here for any news and chat about really unpleasant possibilities.”

For a moment, it seemed like Fergus was going to object, and then Alistair caught the understanding in the teyrn’s eyes, and he nodded instead. Eamon frowned, but said nothing out loud of his obvious objections. Alistair was happy enough to leave the arl behind and stewing in his own machinations. His insistence at interfering with Malcolm and whoever he chose to be involved with had become irritating even to Alistair. The king figured that people deserved to be happy if they could, and their loved ones should do their best to make that happen. While he did understand the necessity of duty—because if he didn’t, he certainly wouldn’t be king—the compulsion didn’t have to be as strong for Malcolm. One of them, at least, could do some of what they wanted, even though Eamon didn’t seem convinced of that. He knew that before the bit with Drake’s Fall and everything after, Fergus had started actively looking for a wife. Alistair had asked him about it and Fergus had told him a Cousland always does their duty. Part of that duty, the teyrn had explained, was making sure the line continued. He’d also been sure to point out that he wouldn’t marry just _anyone_ and that he wanted to find someone compatible. But he had to at least start to make an effort.

Alistair hadn’t even done that. Instead, he’d changed the subject whenever Eamon mentioned it or just plain ignored it. After what had happened with Leliana, he hadn’t wanted to contemplate someone else. Yet Fergus did have a point about duty and it seemed especially glaring with Malcolm’s disappearance that Ferelden was running rather thin on Theirins. He needed to grow up and take on additional responsibility for his kingdom. If that meant a queen and heirs, he would have to face that fact and go through with it. There was also the matter of needing a new chancellor, since Eamon would be returning to Redcliffe once they determined where Malcolm was, as long as Malcolm wasn’t dead. While Alistair might have shut down Eamon more than once when he’d raised the idea of Anora, he hadn’t thrown the possibility entirely out of his mind. He and Anora had spoken, even amicably, in the time since the end of the Fifth Blight. The rumors about Cailan’s straying ways had been true as well, as he’d had people investigate matters in an attempt to find out if the previous king had left any bastards behind. It would have been nice, actually, if Cailan had done so, and the line of succession would’ve been easy to establish. But they’d found all of his mistresses, and not a single one of them had had a child by Cailan. While highly unfortunate, it did at least prove that Anora wasn’t the one at fault when it came to heirs to the throne.

He sighed and shrugged further into his cloak as he and Fergus walked into the city of Highever. It seemed he would have to start making the necessary arrangements to negotiate something with Anora once they found Malcolm and he was back in Denerim. Fergus gave him a sympathetic look, but said nothing, because they were surrounded by the throngs of people who crowded the streets of the city during the day. He and the teyrn visited every ship captain they could find, asking question after question, but their efforts turned up nothing. Fergus was speaking with the harbormaster inside a small building while Alistair waited outside near the street, when an older woman walked cautiously up to the king. 

She peered at him for a moment, and then gave him a warm smile. “You look much like your father,” she said. 

Alistair gave her an odd look. Since she hadn’t used a title when addressing him, he assumed she didn’t know he was the king. “Do I know you?”

She patted his arm. “No, we’ve never met. I knew your grandmother though. Met her when I was just a wee girl. Your younger brother takes more after her than your father, though.”

“I...” he trailed off and stared at her for a moment. “So you know I’m the king?”

“Of course I do, dear. But I know enough that you don’t wish attention to be called to that, just as I don’t wish attention to be called that I’m a hedge mage.”

Alistair smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. He’d felt the magic in her, but had assumed she was an old Circle mage out on an assignment, sort of like Wynne was. No matter. He’d grown to understand mages enough to know when one presented a true danger, and this woman wasn’t one of those. “No need to worry,” he replied. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re a harmless little old lady. I think you’re the one my brother told me about, actually, when he told me about the Tevinters.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “He mentioned me, did he?”

“He was very thankful for the information and was merely relaying that to me. You really have nothing to worry about, I promise.”

“Well, he did seem like a nice young man. I’m glad to see that I could trust him as I did. I’m not sure what he’s up to now, though. I saw him the other night getting—”

Alistair’s hands came up and lightly gripped the woman’s narrow shoulders. “What? You saw him the other night? Here?” She blinked, taken aback, and Alistair carefully removed his hands. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s just that he’s missing.” He chucked a thumb in the direction of the harbormaster’s office. “That’s who Fergus and I are looking for. We weren’t sure if he was taken or just left on his own. Please, tell me everything you remember.”

She nodded slowly and brushed off her sleeves. “Well, I thought I’d seen his face, but he was wearing a hood like you are now, and his posture was atrocious. Very different from the last time he’d been through Highever, and that caught my attention. I wasn’t quite sure it was him until I recognized the mabari walking next to him.”

The king allowed himself to feel some hope that Malcolm was still alive at hearing that Gunnar had also been alive. Of course, that meant that his brother might have left voluntarily and he’d have to kill him, but still. It was hope. “Was it just him and his dog?”

“No.” The woman frowned. “There was a woman with him, but not that charming Dalish elf he was with last time.”

Alistair tried to wrap his mind around Líadan being described as charming, but gave up quickly. “Can you describe her at all?”

“Yes. She was wearing a cloak and I remembering seeing a Grey Warden griffon on it. She had ash-blonde hair tied into a tight bun—tight enough where I wondered to myself if she got headaches from it. And she had the most icy blue, cold, determined pair of eyes I’ve ever seen.”

Alistair’s eyes widened. “Astrid.”

“You know this woman? I think your brother did, and from his body language, I don’t think he approved of her very much.”

The comment made the king smile. “No, he isn’t much a fan of hers. I know I’m not. Did you happen to see where they went?”

The woman nodded and gave him the name of the ship they’d boarded. Alistair thanked her profusely, gave her several sovereigns, and promised yet again not to report her to the Chantry before sending her on her way. Then he bounded into the harbormaster’s office, interrupting the conversation between the man and Fergus. 

The harbormaster paled when he recognized Alistair, and immediately dropped to a knee. “Your Majesty.”

Alistair waved him off. “Up, up, on your feet. We haven’t time for that.” As the harbormaster stood, the king turned to Fergus. “Interesting people you’ve got in this city, I must say. So I got some information, and I can’t tell you who I got it from but I promise it’s a reliable source.” His look returned to the harbormaster. “Can you tell me where the ship called the _Treviso_ was going?”

“The Antivan merchant ship? Sure. She was headed to Cumberland, and then to Val Royeaux before returning to Antiva City.” The harbormaster’s thin lips pressed into a frown. “Is that the ship you think the prince is on?”

“Almost certain. Well, thank you for your help.” He dashed from the office, and then skidded to a stop, realizing he still had no idea what to do next. If his brother and Astrid had gone to Cumberland, they could be pretty much anywhere by now. Though he assumed they would be remaining on the ship and continuing on to Val Royeaux to see the Divine if that was Astrid’s intention. He didn’t think Malcolm would go voluntarily, not after everything they’d been through to prove he wasn’t a mage. Somehow, that damned woman had coerced him with enough force that he’d left without saying a word to anyone.

“Your manners,” said Fergus, stepping out of the harbormaster’s shack and closing the door behind him, “are _appalling_.”

“Raised by dogs, remember?” Alistair replied, offering a grin. 

“Apparently so.” Fergus’ gaze turned to look at the ocean beyond the harbor. Dark clouds hung ominously low over the water and the sight made the teyrn frown. “That storm is going to hit tonight. I hope the ship Malcolm was on was in port when the storm crossed over the Waking Sea. Looks to be fairly powerful. I certainly wouldn’t want to be on the open ocean when it hit. Depending on the speed, they could have made it to Val Royeaux by now, perhaps even halfway to Antiva if they didn’t have a lot to do in Cumberland.”

“How bad would it be to get caught in that storm on the ocean?”

Fergus didn’t turn around. “Bad.”

“I hate that kind of answer. It sounds like the ‘people could die’ kind of bad.”

“Pretty much.” The teyrn sighed, and then turned around. “We should get back to the castle and arrange to send people to Val Royeaux and Cumberland. And if Malcolm was with a Grey Warden, Riordan is definitely going to want to know, and will probably want to send people of his own.” He chuckled a little as they started walking out of the city. “I’d put coin on Líadan informing Riordan that she would be going whether he assigned her to or not. I daresay if he tried to tell her she wouldn’t be going, she’d hit him.”

“With lightning, I imagine.” Alistair felt the grin forming even through his worry about his brother. 

“If he should be so lucky. You weren’t the one who witnessed the look she gave Riordan when he stepped in between her and Fiona when they were arguing about going to Kal’Hirol. I’m surprised that Riordan wasn’t incinerated on the spot, because I wasn’t anywhere near him and I think I got slightly charred. Maker’s breath, how Malcolm ends up entangled with these women with the most frightening of tempers and abilities to painfully back them up, I’ll never know.”

Alistair rubbed at the scruff on his chin like was in deep thought. “Maybe it’s the thrill? Sort of like facing down a dragon and living to tell the tale?”

Fergus shrugged. “Beats me. All I know is that I’d prefer safer options. Not so prickly or able to set me on fire if they so choose.”

“Not sure I can say the same. The only woman I’ve ever been with probably could’ve killed me in about twenty different ways using just a hairpin or something. To be honest, she scared me sometimes. And when I told her that, she just got this adorable, yet entirely _creepy_ smile.” Alistair realized that when he’d just spoken about Leliana, he hadn’t felt the pain he’d always felt before. He missed her, yes, and always would, but it felt somehow good to remember her now. 

“My wife was Antivan,” Fergus said quietly from beside him. “I believe I know what sort of smile you’re talking about.”

There was no reply Alistair could think of for that, so he remained quiet. The two men walked back to the castle in companionable silence, wrapped in warm memories of the women they had once loved. After they met with Eamon, soldiers and messengers were sent out to catch ships from Highever to both Cumberland and Val Royeaux to look for Malcolm. Another messenger was sent to the Vigil to notify Riordan. The storm Fergus had predicted struck that night. Howling winds drove a hard, cold rain onto anyone who dared step outside. Since they’d gotten the lead about Malcolm’s whereabouts, the search parties had been called back into the keep and restored to their usual duties. As the storm raged, Alistair found himself glancing more and more often in the direction of the ocean, wondering if Malcolm would die in the same way as their father had—lost at sea. 

Riordan arrived from the Vigil on the heels of the freshly-returned messenger and the last vestiges of the storm. “So you’re saying,” he said as he paced in front of the fire, “that a renegade Weisshaupt Warden came to Ferelden and pretty much abducted one of _my_ Wardens?”

“We aren’t entirely sure exactly what happened. This woman...” Fergus trailed off and looked over at Alistair. “Who was it that gave you this information?”

The king glanced up from the book he’d contemplated reading, and perhaps looked like he was reading, but hadn’t read a word of yet. “Hm? What?”

Fergus sighed. “Who was it you talked to in Highever?”

“A harmless little old lady,” Alistair replied, replacing the book on the shelf next to his chair. Then he glanced over at the mage in the room. “Not like Wynne, who isn’t harmless.”

She arched an eyebrow.

“Or little,” he said.

“Alistair!”

He grinned at her. “Or old. Though I don’t think it’s fair you get to scold me about saying you’re old. _You_ say it all the time. I’m merely repeating what you say.”

“One of my Wardens being kidnapped,” said Riordan. Somehow the man managed to glare at him without looking away from where he warmed his hands by the fire. Alistair wished he could figure out how. He was sure that trick would come in handy with the Landsmeet.

“Right. As I was saying, it was a charming, adorable little old lady who reminded me of Wynne, except for the old, who apparently had once known Queen Moira or something. She had run into Malcolm and the other Wardens when they came into Highever from Amaranthine and she remembered him from then. So when she saw him in Highever again with Gunnar, she took note of it.” Alistair then explained everything the woman had said, which, in the end, wasn’t much. “The harbormaster gave us the rest,” Alistair finished saying. “Told us the ship and where it was headed. Now we just wait to hear back from the people we sent out, I guess. As much as I’d like to, I can’t really march on the Grand Cathedral and the Divine and demand my brother back if that’s where they’ve gone. One reason is that we haven’t gotten much of an army built yet. Another reason is that she would definitely call an Exalted March on us. I’d like to avoid that, if at all possible, if you please.”

“Understandably,” said Eamon.

“I’ll send a message to the First Warden.” Riordan turned and faced the others in the room. “He can send out Wardens from Weisshaupt to go looking for them since he has more than enough Wardens at his disposal. We just don’t have the numbers here to go looking for them ourselves, as much as I would like to. There—”

A sharp knock on the door cut him off. “Come in,” said Fergus.

The door opened to admit a harried guard who kept glancing nervously behind him. “I’m sorry, your Grace, but we’ve riders just come in from the Vigil. They insist—”

“Riders?” came Líadan’s outraged voice. “We’ve been demoted to _riders_? Do you even have to take an oath for that? I bet there isn’t a ceremony, either.” The Dalish elf appeared in the doorway, her cloaked soaked through and hair plastered to her head, making the pointedness of her ears stand out. She brushed past the servant with a sharply annoyed look and made a beeline for the fireplace. Riordan wisely stepped out of the way. 

The guard tried to continue his announcement. “One of the—”

“Grey Wardens,” Líadan said for the guard as she paused in her warming long enough to shrug off her pack and prop it against a wall. 

The guard nodded a thank you to her even though she couldn’t see him, and then returned his gaze to Fergus. “Grey Wardens, your Grace. The other should be up shortly.”

“I’m right here,” said Fiona, looking quite dry compared to Líadan, and slightly less cranky. At least Alistair thought so. It was hard to tell with her, sometimes. With Líadan, they had the advantage of it always being very clear when she was angry. With Fiona, not so much. She walked into the room and deposited her pack near Fergus’ desk. Alistair looked from Fiona to Líadan, trying to figure out why the younger elf was practically soaked to the bone while Fiona looked like she’d gone through nothing but a light mist. The question must’ve shown on his face because she looked from Alistair to flick a slight glare in Líadan’s direction. “She wouldn’t use an an arcane shield on the way here.”

Alistair didn’t have to see Líadan roll her eyes to know she’d done exactly that as she continued to press so close to the fire that he was almost convinced she was going to jump into it. “That’s because I’m not a great mage like you other mages and it was all I could do to stay on the horse and awake,” she said. 

“I think you underestimate your abilities,” Fiona said.

“I agree,” said Wynne.

Líadan muttered something under her breath that made Riordan snort in laughter. Alistair started to ask what she’d said when he felt something from Fiona that he hadn’t sensed in her before. He shot a questioning look at her, the question on the tip of his tongue.

“Yes, I am,” she said before he could ask.

“By the way, Riordan,” said Líadan, “Fiona got herself tainted again in the Deep Roads. _Apparently,_ it isn’t a big deal since she’s been through it before. I don’t agree, but what do I know?”

Riordan frowned at Líadan, and then looked over at Fiona, who was making herself comfortable in one of the free chairs by Wynne. “How?”

“New kind of darkspawn,” she said. “I think we managed to kill the source, though, so we probably don’t need to worry about them. We also killed three broodmothers in addition to the Mother. Who, by the way, had already sent one of her generals off with parties to hunt down the Architect some time ago. So I suspect he’ll be nicely occupied for quite some time.”

“New kind of darkspawn?” Riordan asked.

“Abominations even to the darkspawn,” said Líadan. “A group of normal darkspawn even called them that before we kindly killed them all. They are... pretty much indescribable. Suffice to say that I’d way rather face another dragon than any of those things again. Everyone else is still at the Vigil recovering. The Mother is dead. We found some strange old messages about the ancient elves possibly hiding out with the dwarves a long time ago, which means a trip to Orzammar in the near future. Oh, and, Fiona is tainted.”

“Aren’t all Grey Wardens tainted?” asked Fergus.

Líadan shot a glare over her shoulder at Fiona. “Well, _now_ they all are.”

Fiona rolled her eyes. “It’s no big deal. I brought things to do a Joining. I’ll go through that and—” She looked over at Fergus and Eamon.

“They know,” said Riordan.

She nodded. “All right. I was saying, another Joining, and another thirty years. Perhaps less, I suspect, considering my age. But certainly longer than the few weeks or so I’d have left if I did nothing. And they would be quite painful days towards the end, as well. I’ll do the Joining tonight and we can be on our way back to searching in the morning.”

Alistair didn’t think he’d heard anyone talk about the Joining in such a relaxed way. It almost reassured that everything would be fine. “Oh, about that. We don’t need any local search parties anymore because we got a lead in Highever. This little old lady told us that she saw Malcolm boarding a ship in the port with someone who matches Astrid’s description. So, he’s either in Cumberland or Val Royeaux at the moment.”

Riordan moved away from Líadan to sit on one of the free chairs. “We’re assuming Val Royeaux. Specifically, at the Grand Cathedral, with the Divine.”

“So, tomorrow morning we leave on a ship to Val Royeaux,” said Líadan.

Fergus looked expectantly at Alistair. “Pay up.”

“Oh, come on. We didn’t actually _bet_. Did we? No. No, we did not. There wasn’t even an amount mentioned. You just mumbled something about coin and Líadan telling Riordan exactly what she was going to do whether he cared for her to or not. No bets were made. Nice try.”

“You two...” Líadan glared at each of them. “You are... you know what? There aren’t even any words.”

“Yes. there are,” said Fergus. “You could just admit that we were right.”

Riordan sighed and ignored Líadan’s frustration to look at Fiona. “I assume you brought what you needed for a Joining?”

She nodded and stood up. “I’ll go prepare it now.”  Then she glanced at Fergus. “May I use the chapel again?”

“Of course. I’ll bring you down and tell you what’s been happening up here while you were in the Deep Roads.” Fergus rose from his chair, and after Fiona grabbed the pack she brought, the two of them left the room.

“You know,” Alistair said slowly to Líadan, “Oghren would say that you look like a drowned nug.”

“I can do to you what I’d do to Oghren if he were to say that,” she replied.

“You should really go take a hot bath and put on some dry clothing,” said Wynne. 

“I’m—” Líadan started saying, but stopped as she took another look at her hands, which were still pale from cold. “Okay, that actually sounds like a good idea.” Then she looked over at Riordan. “And don’t let Fiona do the Joining without me there.”

He gave her a slight nod of acknowledgement. “I wouldn’t dare dream of it.”

After she took her pack and left, Alistair said, “You’ve got to admit, things are much more exciting when she’s around. It hasn’t been this lively around here in days!”

“Fiona or Líadan?” asked Wynne.

“Either one, now that you mention it.” Alistair rose from his chair, feeling too much nervous energy to stay still. 

“Go see if Fiona needs a Warden’s help,” said Riordan. “I need to go change and find something to eat, and then I’ll be down there.”

Alistair knew a hint when he heard it. Well, most of the time. He headed for the door and was surprised when Wynne walked with him. She was quiet as they both headed for the small chantry in the castle. When they got to the doors, she wordlessly cast a ward of silence, and then headed in the direction of the guest wing. After a confused look at her retreating form, he shrugged and walked into the chantry. Fiona had found a table and had several ingredients, all the components of the Joining potion, spread out in front of her. She worked quickly and efficiently as she started to combine them. Alistair once again was surprised to notice how small she was. Even as elves went, Fiona wasn’t very tall. Then again, the other female elf he’d spent time with was on the tall side for elves, so he hadn’t much for comparison.

“That has to be a new one,” he said, “someone concocting their own Joining potion.”

Fiona added another ingredient and kept mixing without looking up. “I don’t see a need for anyone else to do it while I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself. They have better things to do.” She lifted her eyes from her task to look at him. “Speaking of, why are you here, your Majesty?”

Alistair rolled his eyes and settled himself on the pew closest to where Fiona worked. “You’re seriously not going to insist on calling me that, are you? First of all, none of the other Wardens do. I’m lucky enough if they even bother calling me by my name instead of anything more colorful. Second of all, we both know that... you... we know... ha, okay, now it’s really awkward.” He shifted around on the hard, wooden seat. “For me, anyway. Awkward for you, too?”

“Very.” But her lips twitched in the hint of a smile before she returned to mixing the potion. “Alistair, there’s nothing to worry about with this Joining. I’ve gone through it before. I’ve already got partial immunity. It’s more a formality than anything. So you don’t have to force yourself to talk to me before you’re ready.”

He took that in for a moment. “Before I’m ready or before you’re ready?”

Her lips twitched again, longer this time. “Something like that.”

“Oh, you’re tricky. I see.” This time she had a true smile, even though she kept her gaze on the chalice and the ingredients. Alistair didn’t mind, because now that he found himself with the first real chance he had to speak with his mother, he couldn’t think of what to say. All the questions he would’ve asked he already knew the answer to because of the discussions he and Malcolm had. He knew she loved both of them, that much had been obvious from the entire fiasco of the Harrowing days ago. Another moment passed as he thought, and then he figured out his question. “Were you ever tempted to come here to Ferelden and take us back?”

Her hand stopped in midair and hovered over the chalice before she slowly looked up and met his eyes. “Every day.” She blinked a few times, and then returned to her work with the potion.

He understood, since he or Malcolm would’ve done the same. Her answer made him warm inside, and at the same time, caused a twinge of pain over what could have been but never was. 

She swirled the liquid in the chalice around, and then set it down to say a short incantation over it. A purple aura formed around the chalice for a moment before it faded away. “It’s done,” she said, and looked up. Then she moved and sat next to him as they waited for the other two Wardens to appear. He suspected that had it been almost anyone else, there would have been a comfortable silence as they waited. But it wasn’t in his nature to remain quiet for that long, and he chatted about whatever random little things came to mind. She listened to everything he said and smiled the whole time.

When Fiona took the Joining for the second time, Alistair recited the oath and Líadan stood as witness while Riordan offered the chalice. She took it and drank without hesitation or fear.


	55. Chapter 55

**Chapter 55**

“Be certain in need,

and the path will emerge

to a home tomorrow

and time will again

be the joy it once was.”

— _Suledin_ (Endure), a Dalish song

**Malcolm**

After his talk with Hildur, Malcolm found the quartermaster again and wrangled together the supplies he needed to clean his armor. Those secured, he returned to his room and set to scrubbing it piece by piece. Gunnar watched placidly from a corner, his brown eyes occasionally drifting shut. There were spatters of darkspawn blood covering what Malcolm knew to be elven blood from Velanna. Except now he couldn’t really tell the difference between the two types and it bothered him a little. He wondered, once a Warden was far enough into their Calling, if their blood was any different from darkspawn blood. Would it be the black ichor that flowed in a darkspawn’s veins instead of the bright red that humans, dwarves, elves, and even qunari shared? From the ghouls he’d seen and the descriptions he’d heard about the Wardens who had their taint accelerated by the Architect, he wasn’t sure if there would be a difference, not if the outward physical traits had anything to say about it. 

Yet Velanna had died because a demon had turned her into an abomination, or at least her body had started that transformation process before Greagoir put an end to it. Perhaps her blood was more abomination than elven. Either way, dried onto the surface of his cuirass, it looked the same and took just as much scrubbing to remove. There was also the blood on his armor that he could never see and could never remove: Astrid’s. No amount of scouring would lift the stain her death had left on him. He knew it wasn’t one he deserved to be freed of, either. He had killed her as much as the sea had, and he had to own up to that responsibility. 

Once his armor was cleaned, he settled it on the stand provided by the Wardens, and crawled into his bed. His hand went to his chest and felt the Joining pendant there, reminding him of the oath he’d taken at his own Joining. Eventually, he would have to join Astrid in the Fade, and she would render her own judgement as a sister Warden. Then his mind skipped to another thought as he realized all he felt on the leather thong was the pendant. He’d left Morrigan’s ring with Fiona what felt like ages ago when they’d left Vigil’s Keep to go to Amaranthine and Highever. He couldn’t help chuckling a little because if he hadn’t left the ring with Fiona, the Architect surely would have taken it. And from what he’d read and witnessed of the emissary’s abilities, the darkspawn probably would have managed to make it work for him and found Morrigan with it. Providence, it seemed, had somehow smiled on them for once.

The next morning, as soon as he went down to the main hall, he let Gunnar out into the compound’s yard to attend to whatever dog things he needed to attend to. The mabari was smart enough to find his way back to the dining hall to get food from his master, so Malcolm headed to fetch his own in the meantime. Hildur was already there and tearing through her meal like any other Warden he’d met. He gratefully accepted the plentiful food from a servant and dove into it himself. After all those meals of what seemed like dust in his mouth from those biscuits, he intended on taking advantage of all the hot, appetizing meals he could. When he was done, he realized that Gunnar hadn’t made an appearance, which was strange for him. Malcolm secured some scraps for the dog and went out to the yard in search of him, Hildur following.

In the yard, he happened onto Gunnar embroiled in what seemed like a _growling_ contest with the qunari. Then the mabari barked, earning a satisfied nod from Sten. “You are a true warrior and worthy of respect.”

Gunnar gave him a happy bark in reply.

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. He’d yet to get so much as a nod of acknowledgement from the qunari, much less a compliment like Gunnar had gotten. “He likes the dog more than me. Why is it that half the people I meet like Gunnar more than me? I mean, don’t smell. Usually. I don’t have bad breath. I don’t run around insulting people or their mothers or anything. I don’t spit when I talk. I don’t leer at every woman who walks by like Oghren. My clothes are normally fairly clean. I’m not particularly scary-looking. And yet people seem to like the dog better. Why is that?”

“That is because the dog is a fine warrior and knows when to keep silent,” said Sten. “While you are at least a passable warrior, were you a mage, my people would have cut out your tongue by now.”

“Funny you should say that.” Malcolm folded his arms over his chest, slightly annoyed since his questions were much more of a rhetorical nature. 

“Why? You wish to have your tongue cut out?” Sten made as if he were looking around for someone. “I am sure we can find a volunteer willing to accommodate such a request.”

Hildur snorted. 

Malcolm gaped at the qunari. “What? How can you... I mean, you barely even know me. I’ve been remarkably quiet. Astonishingly quiet, even. You’ve no idea.”

“This is what qualifies as quiet among your kind?”

“I guess not. More like it’s what qualifies as quiet among Theirins. My father apparently talked the ears off really taciturn people. And my brother? He talks _way_ more than I do.”

“Is he a mage?”

“No.”

“Unfortunate.”

Hildur practically doubled over as she clutched at her sides and laughed. She recovered after a few moments of giggling, and then looked at Malcolm as she wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. “By the way, we’re coming with you to Ferelden.”

With his free hand, Malcolm drew his fingers over his face in frustration. “Fantastic.” Then he tossed Gunnar the scraps he’d gotten for him before the dog tried to gnaw his other hand off. “Why?”

“What? You don’t like me?” asked Hildur.

Malcolm nodded his head toward the qunari. “No, _he_ doesn’t like _me_.”

“I would approve of you if you did not talk so much,” said Sten. “You should follow the example of your hound.”

“You mean you think I should bark?”

“You are being deliberately obtuse. I will not engage in this conversation further.”

Malcolm sighed and looked at Hildur. “So... why? Not that I won’t completely enjoy the company and all. Because, really, Sten? Absolutely charming. In fact, I think he and Nathaniel will get along _fantastically_. I’ve never seen two people more suited to one another. They could probably hold entire conversations consisting of just nods and broody eyebrows and slight twitches or shakes of the head. Perhaps, at times of great need for communication, a word or two. Maybe.”

“Parshaara.” Sten turned to the dwarf. “I will gather the supplies I was given and meet you at the gates of the compound.” Then the qunari strode off after a withering look at Malcolm.

“The qunari are a very interesting people,” said Hildur.

“Oh, is that what they are?” Malcolm rolled his eyes and looked away from where Sten had gone and back at the dwarf. “Not that I mind, but why are you two returning to Ferelden with me?”

“Well, I mentioned to you yesterday that it’s been great fun being outside of the Anderfels, so that’s one reason. Another is that Ferelden needs Wardens and Sten could be a good addition, once you learn how to get along with him. I also want to check in with Riordan and Fiona, so I can get a good sense of what’s going on with the Architect and the other talking darkspawn. I definitely didn’t like what I heard about his plans when you told me last night.”

“Have you secured passage on a ship yet? Or is this going to cause another delay?”

Hildur arched a brow. “Bit single-minded, aren’t you? Weren’t you telling me yesterday that going back to Highever will result in your torture or death or possibly both?”

“And _you_ mentioned that delaying would make the inevitable outcome even worse.”

She pursed her lips. “Hm. So I did. Advice still stands, by the way. And yes, passage has already been arranged and we need to get to the harbor shortly. Qunari, or so Sten told me, do not get seasick. Do you?”

“No.” He smiled a bit. “When you grow up in Highever, you get over that pretty fast.”

“Excellent! Seeing as we don’t have any mages with us, I wasn’t sure how pleasant the trip would be. I, for some reason, even though I’m a dwarf, also don’t get seasick. This is good. Means we can chat a lot more on this journey instead of puking over the side of the ship.”

“Sten was all for less talking, just in case you forgot.”

Hildur grinned. “Ah, but you misunderstood. Qunari aren’t against talking, exactly, but against excessive talking. Everything we need to chat about is very necessary, especially with whatever intelligence we can get from Sten about the Tevinters.”

“And the qunari.” Malcolm’s eyes widened. “You know, weeks ago, I said that the only people not after Morrigan and poking around in Ferelden were the qunari. Then I _might_ have told the seneschal at Vigil’s Keep to keep a lookout for a qunari invasion fleet off the coast.”

“Rather prophetic, in retrospect, isn’t it?” asked Hildur. “We can discuss it on the ship, though, since we need to get moving. Grab your gear and meet us at the gate.”

It stormed again when they made their crossing of the Waking Sea, making chatting far more difficult than they thought. Malcolm spent as much time as he could belowdecks during the storm, not wanting to remind himself more than he had to about Astrid. While Hildur also preferred to remain in the enclosed space, Sten was the opposite, standing on the topmost deck as resolute and sturdy as any mast during a storm. Malcolm was absolutely fine with that, as the violet-eyed giant tended to unnerve him with the way he just stood around and... looked. And said nothing. A bit creepy, really, when you got down to it.

“You did the right thing,” Hildur said suddenly on the third day. 

Malcolm looked up from his impromptu tug-of-war game with his sock and Gunnar. “What?” His inattention allowed Gunnar to rip the knotted sock from Malcolm’s hands. “Fine, keep it, I don’t want my foot in your slobber anyway,” he said to the dog. “It’s why I tied knots in it, you see. So we could play, because this part of trip has been really, really boring.”

She waited until Malcolm turned before she explained her previous statement. “Astrid.”

“Oh.” His stomach flipped inside him and it had nothing to do with the heaving seas under the ship. “I thought we’d agreed to never talk about that again?”

“Well, you looked like you needed to be told. So I told you. If the situation had been reversed, she would have done the same.”

Malcolm leaned back against the wooden bulkhead and scratched Gunnar behind the ears. “Yes, I’ll be sure to tell her that whenever I see her in the Fade. I’m sure that will go over well. ‘But you would have done the same! Stop hitting me!’ Yes. It would go swimmingly.” He sighed at his own pun. “It isn’t just what happened with her, you know, in the storm. There’s the whole part where I left Ferelden without telling anyone and they’re going to be really, really upset with me. As in, ‘beat me with sticks until I turn pretty colors’ kind of upset.” He squinted in thought. “Or hit me with lightning, in Líadan’s case. Still quite painful, no matter what the method.”

Hildur gave him a warm smile. “Just tell her the truth. You’ll be fine.”

“Just tell her the truth.” Malcolm had repeated each word very slowly. Then he said, “I hadn’t planned on telling her anything other than the truth. I’m just not sure how much of the truth I’ll get out before the yelling starts. I might not even get to say a _word_ depending on who I see first. Eamon would start yelling the moment he saw me. Fergus, too. Not Alistair, though he might grumble a bit. Fiona will just simmer. Riordan will probably just let everyone else do the yelling and tell me later that he’s very disappointed in me, whereupon I’ll feel even _more_ horribly guilty. And the whole time, there’ll be a Dalish elf burning a hole in the back of my head with an astonishingly scary glare.” As he pictured Líadan in the midst of a temper and how truly frightening her glare got—her mouth turned down at the corners and the frown emphasized by the two lines tattooed on her chin, her brows practically merging as they drew down like her frowning mouth—Malcolm paled. “Andraste help me, I am in so much trouble.”

“She’ll understand.”

“She’ll _kill_ me. Stop smirking! This isn’t funny! I told you. I’d promised her, right before the Harrowing, that I wouldn’t leave. And then straight _after_ the Harrowing, without even seeing her once, I left with Astrid.”

“She isn’t unreasonable, you know. Once you explain, she’ll understand. Of course, you’ll have to get to the explaining part, which means enduring through a bit of pain, but you’ll get there, and everything will be fine.”

He slumped and dropped his arms to his sides. “Everything is _never_ fine. Think about it. We go on what should have been a really boring exploratory mission up in Drake’s Fall. Not only did we get captured by the Architect, but we escaped—most of us, that is—to come face to face with a sodding high dragon. A high dragon! And then we had to dig out Líadan and we thought we were fine, but not so much because waiting for us back at Highever were _templars_. Always with the bloody templars. Then—”

The door to their small passenger cabin opened and Sten stepped inside. He immediately frowned at Malcolm, and then asked Hildur, “Is he still talking?”

“He hasn’t stopped,” she replied.

Malcolm glared at her. “I have so. I was quietly playing with my dog for hours. Don’t you go blaming all the talking on me when you started it.” He sighed when she declined to reply. Then he looked at Sten. “I have your answer for you, by the way. Tevinter is looking for a woman, a witch called Morrigan. Well, sort of. They’re more specifically looking for a person who is carrying an unborn Old God child.”

“I do not understand. Why would Tevinter search for a god more derelict than your Maker?”

Malcolm shrugged, ignoring Sten’s thinly-veiled insult of the Chantry’s Maker. “Power. That’s what drove them to the Old Gods in the first place. Then there was that whole sundering the Veil thing which led to the whole darkspawn and Blight thing. Nasty, vicious cycle, really, that they’re trying to perpetuate. So anytime the qunari would like to finish with Tevinter and keep them from doing that sort of thing, that would be fantastic.”

“You should not wish for that, human. Once the qunari conquer Tevinter and bring them to the Qun, the rest of Thedas will follow.”

The lack of hostility in Sten’s tone put Malcolm off-balance. It didn’t make sense for the qunari to talk about conquering Thedas, and yet project not an ounce of hostile intent. Instead, he simply stated everything as fact. “I thought there was a peace treaty after the war, between your people and pretty much everyone but the Tevinters.” 

“They signed a piece of paper. But only because they knew that you believed in it. They stopped fighting for their own reasons. And they will resume it again, one day. The agreement means nothing to them.”

Malcolm frowned and looked over at Hildur. She shrugged at Malcolm, and then asked Sten, “I thought your people believed in honor?”

He nodded. “They do. The honor of the qunari is what will bring our warships back to human shores.”

Hildur raised an eyebrow in Malcolm’s direction, successfully reminding him of his prediction about a qunari fleet off the northern coast of Ferelden. He sighed, which made her laugh. At Sten’s questioning look, she said, “Malcolm made a joke weeks and weeks ago about how it seemed everyone on Thedas was looking for Morrigan, except for the qunari, and that Ferelden should start watching for a qunari fleet to land on their shores.”

“Your people should keep watch,” Sten said to Malcolm. “It is the only wise thing to do.”

The storm broke that night, leaving the sea shrouded in a thick fog. Malcolm left the cabin in the morning for the muffled quiet the fog offered, Gunnar following him until he found a cozy pile of rope. His dog comfortable, Malcolm sought out the solitude and comfort of the bowsprit’s webbing. He settled into the net and watched as the ship slid through the fog, though didn’t take long until he could hear the fog bells ringing from what must be Highever’s port. The bells helped guide the ships safely into the port and away from the shoals when the fog got this heavy. So, if he could hear them, he was nearly home.

Malcolm rolled out of the webbing and hopped back onto the deck before heading into the hold to get his gear. Hildur and Sten followed him topside, and the three of them and Gunnar stood at the railing as the ship cruised into the harbor without incident. 

“Your people would not stand against the great qunari fleet of warships,” said Sten.

“My people are supposed to have a _treaty_ with your people so we wouldn’t _have_ to worry about your warships,” Malcolm replied, and made a mental note to let Alistair know that they needed to start preparing for the apparently inevitable qunari invasion. “We made the mistake of thinking your people had honor.”

“We do. But you do not understand our honor.”

“No, we don’t.” Then Malcolm pushed himself away from the railing and walked towards the gangway to the pier. As he moved from the ship and onto the damp, wooden dock, he stared into the fog obscuring half the pier from view, and then came to a complete halt. Hildur smacked into him from behind and cursed softly, but Malcolm barely noticed.

There, standing on the pier with a full pack at her feet, stood Líadan. 

Hildur saw her, patted Malcolm on the shoulder, said something that he didn’t hear, and then stepped around him. He blinked several times to make sure Líadan wasn’t some sort of apparition, and then told Gunnar to bring Hildur and Sten to the castle. The mabari barked his reply, ran a tight circle around the group and set off. After they had gone, disappearing into the fog, he stepped forward so he could see her better. She didn’t move, either backward or forward, and remained almost completely still. He got within easy reach, where either one of them could extend a hand and touch the other, but neither of them did, each equally unsure. 

When Malcolm saw the look on Líadan’s face, it frightened him. Not because she looked angry, but almost because she _didn’t_. Touches of a desperate sadness lingered around her eyes, and every time she met his gaze, she glanced away. She was acting like someone had died. In his mind, he started to go through the names of those who stood the greatest chance of being dead. He supposed it could be Velanna, and that Líadan’s guilt at the other Dalish elf’s death was more strong than he’d first thought. But that didn’t explain how reluctant she seemed to be to tell him. Someone closer, then. Riordan immediately came to mind due to the nearness of his Calling and the threats against his life. Maybe even Alistair, as assassination attempts against kings weren’t altogether uncommon on Thedas.

His chest tightened at the realization that it had to be one of the two, as they were really the only ones close to that sort of danger who would garner this sort of reaction from Líadan. “Who?” he asked, his voice soft out of his hesitancy.

Líadan’s hands brushed over her cuirass and the belt for her daggers, as if searching for something to cling to. She took a breath, held it, and then let it go. Even then, her body didn’t relax, and her hands, left with nothing else, wrung together.

In the distance, Malcolm heard Alistair shout something unintelligible, and then a short, meaningless answer given in Riordan’s Orlesian cadence. Then he remembered that the other Wardens had gone to Kal’Hirol while he’d been in relatively safe Cumberland. A Grey Warden’s life was inherently dangerous, second only to the Legion of the Dead—and they were _already_ dead—even putting aside the taint. Had it been Oghren, then? Anders? Mhairi, who seemed to be narrowly escaping certain death at every turn? Nathaniel? But aside from Oghren, and possibly Anders and Nathaniel to a degree, Líadan hadn’t been close enough to them yet to warrant this kind of reaction. For that matter, neither had he, and Líadan seemed to know that.

The tips of his fingers went cold and fear skittered over his skin. _No._ “Who?” he asked again, barely audible, as even as he asked, he knew he didn’t want to hear the answer, because he didn’t want it to be true.

And neither did she, he saw, as she bit her lower lip and continued to look at everything but him. Then she finally raised her eyes, squinting to hold back tears—had he ever even seen her cry?—and that scared him even more. Líadan opened her mouth and nothing came out at first. She seemed displeased at that as she frowned slightly. Then she said, “Fiona. Your—no. She...” Líadan stumbled and tripped over her explanation in her rush to get it out and away. “At Kal’Hirol, there were these things, these monstrosities even for darkspawn. They caught us by surprise and mauled her. Anders was able to heal the wounds, but she was tainted. She assumed, _we_ assumed, that going through the Joining again would solve the problem. We all assumed and thought nothing of it and we weren’t ready for what happened. I wasn’t... if I had... she...” The elf ran trembling fingers through her hair, brushing errants strands out of her eyes as she blinked rapidly, seeking control of what threatened to burst forth. Her gaze moved to face the open sea where the fog was slowly giving over to a cold, late autumn drizzle. “She died. We couldn’t, I couldn’t... and there was nothing we could do, and she was gone, and you were gone.” She turned and looked at him, her jaw trembling even as she tried to set it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t save her.”

 _No. We were supposed to have more time_. When Weisshaupt had assigned Fiona to Ferelden, it had granted them what seemed like all the time in the world to settle things. To figure things out and develop some sort of relationship with the woman who had given birth to him and his brother. With all that time available to them, it only seemed reasonable that they take care of other matters first, of duty and the darkspawn and the ever-looming threat of another Blight. And then without a single warning or portent such as dreams or illness, the time granted to them had ended with almost nothing said between them. “She—” But he couldn’t say anything else because it all got stuck in his throat as a bitter truth he couldn’t swallow. 

“I’m sorry.” Líadan kept her gaze on him, eyes holding fast to his as if she were afraid that if she looked away, he would be gone.

“It’s—” But he still couldn’t speak. It rose in his chest and throat, a tightness that tore at his ability to breathe and entirely set aside the idea of talking. He wanted to. He needed to. Líadan’s eyes were widened in fear, just barely, but enough that he could see. The longer he remained silent, the more he saw the fear grow and take hold—that he blamed her. That he blamed her, and then he would leave, this time in truth. He needed to say something, anything, tell her that it wasn’t her fault before she entirely convinced herself that it was. Later he could shout to stone walls about how he’d run out of time with his mother and hope that one day this wrenching pain of failure would fade. Right now, time was screaming at him that this chasm between them would only grow larger the longer he didn’t speak. That time was winding down between the two of them and soon they would have nothing. 

_We were supposed to have more time._

“I just thought... I was here so I could take a ship to find you, and here you were, just walking off a ship. She was supposed to go with me to help search. And I couldn’t—” She bit her lip again and looked away, the danger of showing tears far outweighing the danger of him vanishing when she wasn’t looking. “I guess you can... do that thing where you disappear for a while to do... whatever it is that you do when you leave.” Her voice cracked on the last word and her hand went to her mouth as if it had betrayed her. Then she used the same hand to run her fingers through her hair again. “Just don’t...” She trailed off once more, and then Elvish tumbled rapidly from her mouth: “ _Emma ir abelas, emma lath, la ma inan’din ma dar navhen, emma harel sahlin, ma venshiral_ —”

Malcolm had no idea what she was saying, but he could tell that every word hurt her to say. What he hadn’t learned before it was too late to speak freely with his mother was that when they thought they had all the time they could ever need, the truth was that they always needed more time than they were given. Time was a deception, even though you could plan for the future, if you didn’t live your life in the present, the past would be all you had. He saw the grief tearing at Líadan as much as it did him and she only compounded it as she continued to beat herself up. He had to keep her from doing that because she didn’t deserve it. “Stop. I—” But _he_ stopped when she looked up at him and he saw that she was getting ready to bolt. The wild look had crept into her eyes and he could practically see her muscles coiling to run. There had to be something he could say; something he could do.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. Elvish again and you’ve no idea what I’m saying—”

“No. That isn’t...” And once he regained the ability to say more than two words at a time, he could only reach three before hitting his limit. His entire body felt cold as the disbelief and shock at the news of his mother tried to sink in and refused to be made truth. Even colder was the gap between him and Líadan as she started to draw away in body as she had already started to hide in mind and heart. She wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure. They were never sure and assumed they had all the time they would ever need.

_Until we didn’t have any time at all._

Líadan tilted her head as she continued to look at him. “You don’t—nevermind.” She started to turn so that she could flee. He saw it play out in his mind, the spin on her heel and the rapid steps away from him until she disappeared in the foggy drizzle blanketing the city. 

Before he knew what he was doing, his hand reached out and grasped her wrist before she could take a step. She froze at his touch and turned toward him, her brows drawing into a quizzical look that tried to read his intentions. He didn’t want this chasm to exist anymore and wasn’t anything he could say, even if he could manage to put together an actual sentence that didn’t stop suddenly or trail away. Then, somehow, he did. “I’m sorry,” he said, surprised at how rough his voice sounded.

“You don’t—”

“I _left_. I can see it in your eyes even though you haven’t said it.” It was like the simple act of a touch crumbled the stone wall holding back what needed to be said. “There’s a story behind it and it wasn’t... I didn’t want to leave, but I had to. And it sounds absolutely ridiculous that I’m trying to explain it that way. Meanwhile, I left you here and you had to see... to...” But he couldn’t say those words, he couldn’t say out loud ‘ _you had to watch my mother die’_ because that would make it as real as seeing her lifeless body. He looked away suddenly, but at the same time, he moved his hand from her wrist to thread his fingers through hers.

“I couldn’t do anything. She was so _sure_ that it would be fine. And then she was gone.” Líadan took a breath and held it. He recognized the sudden intake—the one where she fought temper and sorrow and didn’t want to let out either one. As he lifted his eyes to look at her, she let the breath go. Her lips pursed slightly, and then she asked, “You don’t see it, do you? That you’re my people, my home now?” Her fingers tightened in his as her temper threatened to break free of the tenuous grasp she had on it. 

Malcolm felt the pressure of time as stark and cold as the drizzle landing on the back of his neck. He couldn’t let her keep thinking that he didn’t feel the same. “I—”

“And then you _leave_. You are my lo—”

“I love you.”

“Are my—what?” Her fingers went slack in his hand.

“I love you. That’s what I said. Please don’t do anything with the lightning.”

Líadan studied him for a moment, her eyes showing nothing of urge to flee they’d held before. Nor did they show any anger, something that relieved Malcolm even more, considering. The corners of her mouth curled into a smile, and then she let go of his hand to move hers up and place them on each side of his face. “ _Ma emma lath_ , _”_ she said before she closed the rest of the gap between them and kissed him.

In it, he found an absolution he hadn’t known he’d been looking for, and no small amount of joy. But the drizzle falling from the sky turned to rain and reminded them that while they had found their time together, someone else’s had ended. Malcolm pulled away, his hands somehow having found their way to the small of her back, and rested his forehead against hers. “What does that mean? I think I’ve heard you say it before, or something that sounded a lot like it.”

Her eyes dropped to the ground, even as her fingers moved to twine behind his neck. “I could tell you, but you might be mad.”

“Why would I be mad? I wouldn’t be mad. Not unless you were insulting my Theirin nose or something—”

“You are my love. That’s what it means.”

“So, all this time...” He let the statement dangle to see if she would explain.

“It’s what I told you when you were unconscious. The part you weren’t sure about being a memory or a dream. It’s what Velanna was always scolding me for, because she could tell and she didn’t like it because you’re human. I also kind of blurted it out when I was trapped in the cave-in. You know, when I changed the subject when you started pressing me for a translation.”

“You’ve already been telling me that you love me.”

“Pretty much.”

“I _knew_ I should’ve learned your language sooner.” Ignoring the sting of the heavy rain on his skin, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers to speak in a language they could both understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish Translations:
> 
> -Líadan: “Emma ir abelas, emma lath, la ma inan’din ma dar navhen, emma harel sahlin, ma venshiral—”  
> “I’m sorry, my love, and you don’t see that you’re my people, my home now, and then you leave—”


	56. Chapter 56

**Chapter 56**

“And there I saw the Black City,

Its towers forever stain’d,

Its gates forever shut.

Heaven has been filled with silence,

I knew then,

And cross’d my heart with shame.”

— _Canticle of Andraste 1:11_

**Malcolm**

A lightning-laced finger jabbed Malcolm in the side, sending enough of a jolt through his cuirass to make him yelp and break away from Líadan. As he narrowed his eyes at her, she said through a laugh, “That was for leaving. Not for... anything else. I wouldn’t want you to get discouraged after all it took to get to that point.”

He rolled his eyes. “No, we certainly wouldn’t want _that_.”

The remark earned him another well-placed jab followed by a scowl and an abrupt turn as Líadan started walking back through the city. After stupidly grinning at her retreating form for a moment, Malcolm followed. It only took him three steps to remember that grinning and amusement were things that should be far from his mind. Instead, he remembered he should be focused on the wreckage that the harsh reality of being a Grey Warden had left in its wake with the death of his natural mother. Not wanting to interact with the citizens of Highever more than he had to, he pulled the hood of his cloak up over his head. It didn’t take long for Líadan to stop and wait for him to catch up, briefly slipping her hand in his for reassurance before they reached where the other Wardens waited. As soon as Riordan, Alistair, Hildur, and Sten came into view, her hand withdrew. He understood and didn’t hold it against her. 

However, judging by the small smirk that flitted across Hildur’s mouth, Malcolm was fairly certain the others had witnessed their little scene on the docks. Then her light eyes became serious again, as if she’d been struck by the memory of who had died. She turned and motioned toward Sten and set off down the path that led to Highever Castle. 

Riordan had an uncertain look about him, as if he expected to turn around at any moment and see his friend. So when he didn’t, it gave him a nearly perpetual slightly surprised expression. Alistair, on the other hand, looked absolutely bereft, like a child who’d been given a long-wanted toy, only to have it snatched away and destroyed right before his very eyes. Which, in a way, was sort of what had happened. Fate had been kind enough to grant them time to get to know their natural mother, only to rip her away when they were least suspecting it, just when they’d started to really get attached. On Malcolm and Líadan’s approach, Riordan gave the king a friendly, open-handed slap on the shoulder, nodded to Malcolm, and then indicated for Líadan to follow him. After an uneasy glance back at Malcolm, she did, and she and the Warden Commander took the same path that Sten and Hildur already had. 

So far, Gunnar had yet to leave Alistair’s side. The king opened his mouth when he saw his brother, an obvious attempt at trying to start a conversation about the awful thing that had happened. But no words left Alistair’s mouth, and after a moment of leaving it hanging open, he closed it. His hand dropped to idly scratch the mabari behind the ears. Malcolm understood the not-so-small comfort the dog’s unwavering presence gave. On the long nights after his and Duncan’s flight from Highever and Malcolm’s unwelcome conscription into the Grey Wardens, Gunnar’s presence had been an unbelievably warm balm to his soul. And, sometimes, a mabari’s soft fur was the perfect place to dry your tears for reasons ranging from you skinned your knee by tripping over your own two feet or because your mother had died and there was nothing you could’ve done to stop it. 

“You should consider getting a mabari of your own,” said Malcolm, surprised at how strong his voice sounded when before, with Líadan, it had seemed to be anything but.

“Ha.” The corner of Alistair’s mouth twitched in a brief, tiny smile. “Eamon said that a few days ago, that I should get a mabari. Apparently it would look good for the King of Ferelden to have one of his own. Oh, and I’m told they make good bodyguards.”

“They’re a companion who loves you unconditionally is what they are.” Malcolm forced himself not to say something about the breed _not_ being a political statement. Eamon had never had a mabari and apparently didn’t have a true appreciation for that the breed really was. They were partners, they were companions, they were _family_. He wanted his brother to have one so that he had that anchor himself, to know that no matter what, there was someone who loved him absolutely and without judgement, _not_ because he wanted Alistair to make some sort of statement about Ferelden and its mabari warhounds.

Alistair glanced down at the dog who sat by his side. “They really are, aren’t they?” He gave the dog another good scratch, and that earned him a happy bark from Gunnar. “Well, unless you come between them and their next meal. Then the gloves are off.”

“The same could be said about Grey Wardens.”

“Hmm. True. I’ll give you that one. Or Theirins and cheese, for that matter. I seem to recall a fistfight or two over cheese.” Alistair sighed and looked up at the castle. “We should probably get back there. People are waiting. For what, I’m not sure. Well, no. For you, I suppose, what with your whole disappearing act.” There was a hint of bitterness in Alistair’s voice. Very slight, but there nonetheless. 

Malcolm winced. “Astrid. She showed up and threatened to tell the Divine about... about...” He looked away and back toward the harbor down the hill, both because he didn’t want to say it, and because he needed to make sure no one else was listening.

“Our mother,” Alistair finished saying for him, his voice catching as much as Malcolm knew his would had he the courage to say it.

He owed it to his brother to at least look him in the eye, so he turned around. “Yes. And I went, because either... I wasn’t... I didn’t want more people, more _Wardens_ , to die like Velanna had. And then it would’ve put Ferelden in danger, because she was going to spill the connection with you.”

“But you came back with that dwarf Warden and... was that a qunari? Like, from Seheron and everything?”

“Yeah, he’s a qunari. Not sure exactly where he’s from though. Also, did you know they cut the tongues out of their mages?”

“ _Really_? You know, with some mages, I have to say, that’s bloody brilliant.”

“Líadan would love hearing you say that.”

“She’s at the top of my list.”

“I’m _so_ telling on you.”

Alistair grinned at his brother until it was struck away by memory. “We, um... we already had a pyre. I mean, we weren’t sure when you’d be back. Or if you’d be back, really. We managed to figure out that Astrid had somehow taken you to Val Royeaux and probably to the Divine. Líadan was at the docks because she was going to take a ship to find you. Fiona was going to go with her, but...” 

“Right.” Malcolm started for the castle, ducking his head against the wind, Alistair falling into step next to him. He’d been preparing himself to see her body, stand vigil at a pyre, and begin to come to terms with grief with that. Now he was left with nothing, much the same that had happened with Eleanor Cousland, the woman who had raised him. “I should have... what _is_ it with Highever and death? Everyone seems to die here. First my parents, sister-in-law, nephew, all the staff, and then Velanna, Fiona. Who’s next? Fergus should just raze the place and build a new one. Except that he _can’t_ because Howe emptied all the coffers he could find and there’s too much other critical rebuilding that needs to happen for Fergus to just up and decide to build a new castle.” He sighed. “You know, I used to love this place. And then the Blight happened.”

“You could say that about a lot of Ferelden,” said Alistair. “Or Thedas, really. I mean, I’m not saying that you aren’t allowed to be mad about the Blight and the darkspawn and everything that’s happened personally. Just... oh, I don’t know. I suppose you’re right. There’s a lot of blood spilled around here for some reason.” He squinted in thought. “You could blame Flemeth for starting it all, if you wanted, with how she pretty much ended the Elstan line before the Couslands took over here. Set a precedent, I suppose.”

“Theoretically, we already killed her.”

“Right, but not for that specifically. And I suspect that she isn’t really dead. If it was really that easy to kill her, she’d have died centuries ago.” Alistair frowned. “Though, if she had been dead, we’d be dead, too, on top of the Tower of Ishal. Even as awful as things have been lately, I’m rather a fan of being alive. I just wish some other people were still alive, given the choice.”

“Me, too.” They passed through the barbican and gave curt nods to the soldiers standing guard. Gunnar took off at a run to bound through the grounds and do whatever it was mabaris did on their home turf. “I just... the reason I didn’t cooperate with Astrid and the Chantry in the first place was to keep people from dying. Because, you know, Morrigan hunts templars for sport. We both know she could eat alive anyone the Chantry sends at her. I thought I was doing them a favor, in a way, by not giving them any information that would lead them any closer. But, the thing is, the Wardens are family, really, and after seeing a Warden die in order to save the templars who are pretty much out to make my life and the lives of everyone around me absolutely miserable, I figured it’s better they die than, well, us.” Except, of course, there was that tiny niggling matter of him having killed a fellow Warden, but the point was still the same. “Anyway, by the time I managed to get untangled from all of that...” he trailed off and shrugged. 

Alistair gave him a sidelong look. “How _did_ you get out of that, by the way?”

“Um. Not sure if you want to know. Let’s just say I’m a step closer to being a pirate than I ever thought I’d be.”

“A pirate? You wanted to be a pirate? Why did I not know this? Does anybody else know?”

Malcolm walked through the main doors and into the castle’s main corridor. “Fergus, I guess. I mean, it was one of those little-boy dreams. I thought being a pirate when I grew up would’ve been awesome. I was maybe four or five at the time, so I didn’t have the greatest perspective on careers.” He pushed his hood back as soon as they were inside.

The king seemed unconvinced. “Admit it. You though it was a fantastic idea yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Absolutely. That’s the real reason I was away. I had to check on my ship and my crew and make sure everything was running smoothly while I took time off to be a Grey Warden. You’ve caught me. You’ve figured out my secret life. It’s all over now.” Admittedly, he did wonder if being a pirate would be _easier_. Well, except with less murder on the high seas. He could live with never having to deal with that ever again. 

“Ha, I knew it.”

The Arl of Redcliffe walked around the corner, his brows drawn into a look of determination Malcolm hadn’t seen on the arl’s face since the Landsmeet. Eamon, Malcolm decided, and to use his brother’s term, had a nasty glare. The look didn’t much subside when he noticed the two brothers and, in fact, it seemed to strengthen. Then the arl asked Alistair, “Knew what, your Majesty?”

“Oh, that Malcolm here has a second career as a pirate.” Alistair offered the arl a cheeky grin, which immediately made Eamon’s frown deepen.

“I’m sure,” he replied. 

Malcolm was saved from letting loose some choice remarks when Riordan walked around the same corner the arl just had. “Malcolm, Alistair,” he said, “I thought you might want to have a look at Fiona’s things in her room. It’s not much, but it’s something.” They gave him awkward nods, and then shuffled off, ostensibly in search of their mother’s room. Yet it took them more than a few hours and even a stop for a meal before they summoned enough courage to go.

The pack was waiting for them on a made bed. Malcolm wondered if the servants had made it. The room didn’t even look lived in at all and the pack looked surprisingly out of place.

“She never got a chance to sleep in the bed,” said Alistair, who hadn’t yet moved from standing in the doorway. “She and Líadan rode here straight from coming out of the Deep Roads. After they stopped in and told everyone what happened in Kal’Hirol, Fiona went straight to do the Joining. She assumed that she’d live. We all sort of did, really. I remember thinking that I’d never seen people so relaxed about a _Joining_ , of all things. And that’s exactly what made me fall into the same trap, I suppose. Everyone just... they were all so _sure_. She even mixed up her own Joining potion. If that isn’t strange, I don’t know what is.”

Malcolm took a hesitant step towards the pack on the bed. It seemed surreal, that there was really nothing left of his natural mother but the contents of this pack. Her body had long been reduced to ashes, and the ashes already scattered. That the last meaningful physical interaction he had with her was the brief touch on his shoulder after he’d woken up from the Harrowing. That the last time he’d seen her alive was when she’d been walking out of the main hall to tell Líadan that he was still alive and that Velanna had died. He took another step towards the pack, and then glanced at his brother.

“The other Wardens will be arriving in a day or two,” Alistair said, shifting nervously from foot to foot and sliding a tiny bit into the room. His eyes darted everywhere in the room except for on the pack set out on the bed. “Riordan summoned them after... well, he summoned them. We got word that King Endrin died last week, so Grey Wardens are being sent for his return to the Stone. I’m supposed to go, too, to entreaty continued good relations between Ferelden and Orzammar with Endrin’s funeral and Bhelen’s succession to the throne. You’ll need to go too, by the way, in both capacities: Grey Warden and prince. Your favorite, I know. Líadan and Fi—she wants to do some research at the Shaperate, something about some information they found in the Deep Roads that connects the elves with the dwarves after the destruction of Arlathan. I mean, I’m sure there was more information than that, but it sort of went over my head.”

“Was she speaking Elvish or did you just stop paying attention?” Malcolm pulled a stool from the corner and sat on it, staring at the pack. He reached out once, as if to open it, and then brought his hand back. 

“Honestly? I stopped paying attention. She’d started babbling about Dalish legends and I tend to tune out when she does that.” Alistair mimicked his brother’s actions and grabbed a chair to sit in on the opposite side of the bed. He didn’t reach for the pack, though.

Malcolm gave Alistair a small frown. “Hey, that’s part of your heritage, you know. Best if we don’t forget that, I think.” Having said that, he reached out again and tugged the pack open. If they weren’t going to forget things, it would help to face them so that they would always remember. Various things spilled out onto the bedspread: a couple spare robes, components for potions, health poultices, a few vials of lyrium, other sundries, and then a worn, brown leather case that had seen far better days. Both of them stared at the items, struck by how mundane they all seemed. Was this what encompassed their mother’s life in the end? The bare, meager existence of daily living as a Grey Warden? “Did you...” Malcolm started saying, and then looked up and waited for Alistair to meet his gaze. “Did you have a chance to talk with her?”

Alistair pushed aside a robe and a poultice and picked up the leather case. “I did.” A smile crossed his lips at the memory, happiness finally touching the lingering sadness. “Strangely enough, it was while she was preparing the Joining potion, and then we talked while we waited for Riordan and Líadan to show up at the chapel. Well, more like, I talked and she listened, as any conversation with me usually goes.” His fingers started undoing the knot that held the leather case closed. “Did you know that she thought about coming to Ferelden and taking us back every day? We were... I just didn’t believe she’d thought about us that much while she was at Weisshaupt and we were here and being raised as we were. But we were never far from her mind. Imagine that. She thought of us every day. The willpower it must have taken to stay at Weisshaupt... it’s something I can’t even fathom.”

“It’s what she believed would be best for us, so she stuck with it.” Malcolm ignored the rest of what lay scattered on the bed because they were all things they would’ve found in any mage’s pack. Not so much the leather case Alistair held, though, so his eyes remained on that as his brother opened it. “Not sure I could do that if it were my own child. Not being able to see them? Ever? But if it meant they would live a better life than I had, maybe I would.” He shrugged. “Let’s just hope I’m never faced with that choice.”

The king paused as he opened the flap. “We might not even be left with a choice at all. Neither one of us stands much of a chance of having a child of our own. Eamon might be _Eamon_ , but he’s right to worry about the succession of the throne when we both get our Calling. The longer it is from our Joining, the harder it will be. Even though Fiona was a Warden when she, they, um... anyway, she’d only been a Warden for six months when I was made, so to speak. With you, she wasn’t tainted anymore, so that wasn’t a problem. But with us? We’ve both been Wardens for well over a year and I’m nearing the two-year mark. I’m not doing anyone any favors by continuing to put off finding a wife and trying to have children.”

Malcolm gave Alistair a curious look, fighting a sudden surge of anger directed at his brother. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“What? No! That was me rambling at myself, more like. It’s my responsibility to try to ensure that the line carries on, not yours, no matter what Eamon might say.” He sighed, and then peeked into the leather case. “Oh, hey.” Alistair shook out a handful of letters, and then a familiar ring tumbled onto the bed. The king quickly picked it up and offered it to his brother. “So you _didn’t_ have the ring? I thought you had it the whole time.”

Malcolm accepted the ring and rolled it around in his palm. “No, Fiona did. She was working on it. Trying to figure it out or make it better somehow. Which is good, because I think if I’d had it while we were in Drake’s Fall and the Architect had gotten us, he would’ve stolen it.”

Alistair gently unfolded one of the letters—the parchment was old, softened by time, edges ragged from being read multiple times. “This... these letters are about us. Like what you found with Duncan, you know, the letters she’d written. Well, these... these are all his letters to her. And even a couple from Maric. She kept them. All of them. Kept them with her.” His voice broke a little. “Kept us with her in a way, I suppose.” Then he cleared his throat and blinked a few times before looking back over at Malcolm, eager to change the subject. “If you’d had the ring while you were in Cumberland, would you have bothered to come back? Or would you just have left to search for Morrigan from there, since it was closer?”

Malcolm held the ring between thumb and forefinger in the flickering light as he considered his brother’s question. “I would have come back. The existence of the ring didn’t even cross my mind.”

“Did it cross your mind to not come back, then?” Alistair looked up from the letter he held to stare intently at his brother.

Malcolm stared back. “Of course it did. I was in Cumberland. I even saw a crow there. How could it _not_? Morrigan once meant everything to me. Well, almost everything, considering how it turned out.”

“And now she doesn’t?”

“Not even close.” The answer came out faster than Malcolm had anticipated, and it surprised him with its speed. “I mean, she’s important, yes. And... she’ll continue to have once been an incredibly important part of my life, but not any longer. I’m sure that I loved her, but, even as much as I might’ve protested to Eamon, I’m not sure if it was really _that_ sort of love. Whatever that is. I don’t know. It’s very confusing.”

Alistair chuckled. “Leliana always said you were in more than a bit over your head with Morrigan. Not to say that how you felt wasn’t valid! Just that... she was like an overwhelming force of nature, really, and you pretty much didn’t stand a chance. By the end, though, it was far more even than it had been at the beginning. Still, you were definitely playing in the deep end when you probably should’ve been closer to the shallows. Leliana thought it was sweet, though.”

He rolled his eyes. “She thought _everything_ was sweet.”

“Not true! For instance, she once spent two weeks straight incredibly angry with me for what I had thought was a sweet gesture.”

“Oh?” Malcolm had always wondered what had caused that not-quite-so-little row between Alistair and Leliana when they’d traveled from Redcliffe and east to Denerim during the Blight. “What did you do?”

“I, um, gave her a rose.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “A rose? Normally that isn’t something that incites anger. Or were you feeling a bit thorny?”

Alistair rolled his eyes this time. “Oh, ha ha. Very funny. No. See, this was the rose I told you about before.”

“You didn’t mention the her being mad at you thing before. I think I would’ve remembered that. In fact, you implied that she _fell for you_ when you gave her that rose.” 

“It isn’t out of the question that a woman can be angry at you _and_ fall in love with you at the same time.” Alistair motioned towards the door and in the vague direction of the rest of the castle. “Think about it. Líadan spends at least half her waking hours irritated at you, and nevermind that you spend half of _your_ time annoyed at her for being annoyed at you for reasons you can’t figure out. And, despite all of that, we all know how you feel about each other.” He grinned when Malcolm flushed. “Told you. Anyway, do you remember why Leliana accompanied us during the Blight?”

“If I recall, she seemed a bit off her rocker at the time.” He struggled to remember the bard’s exact reasoning. “Something about the Maker telling her to and some sort of vision.” As he waited for his brother’s answer, he threaded the ring back onto the leather thong around his neck, where it clinked once against the Warden pendant before settling down.

“Yes. Vision. And after she had the vision, she found a rosebush outside the chantry that was completely dead except for a single rose. She said that it was if the Maker had held out His hand and told her to have faith because, even in the midst of all that darkness, there was beauty.”

“You _didn’t_. It wasn’t! Was it?”

“Oh, but it _was_. It was totally the same rose that I went and picked. And I, as she pointed out, several times, and quite loudly, had killed the Maker’s rose. ”

Malcolm could _hear_ Leliana saying that in her wonderful, lilting voice and the idea of it set him to laughing. The laughs started out quietly at first, rumbling in his chest as he tried to stop them, astonished that he could laugh while he and his brother sorted through their dead mother’s belongings. But his laughter was infectious and Alistair joined in, his attempts at stopping his giggles by putting a hand over his mouth entirely ineffective. They laughed together until they were a bit sniffly, and both of them could blame the slight teariness on laughing too much rather than anything else. As Malcolm wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, he thought he heard yelling coming from the corridor. He frowned and looked at Alistair. “Can you hear that?”

Alistair shared in the frown, and then quickly placed the letters back into their leather case before tucking it away. “Yes. It sounds suspiciously like Eamon.”

“Eamon? Shouting? Never.” Malcolm got to his feet and headed into the hallway, Alistair right behind him. As they walked toward the source of the shouting, the words became clear.

“You’re as bad as that witch was! Worse, possibly. You are not only a mage, you’re a Dalish elf!”

“A Dalish elf, you say? What was it that gave that away? The tattoos? Or was it the pointy ears? Tell me, if I were a human woman, would you even care at this point that I was a mage? No? I didn’t think so. You’re exactly the kind of human that makes me remember why my kind stays so far away from _your_ kind!”

Malcolm’s eyes widened and he traded a panicked look with Alistair. “That was Líadan.”

“She might kill him, by the sound of it,” Alistair said.

Eamon’s shouted answer to Líadan drifted down the hallway. “If _you_ would be so kind as to stay away from that boy, I would be most thankful!” 

“Nevermind her. _I_ might kill him,” said Malcolm. Not only was Eamon going against Fergus’ wishes and confronting Líadan while under the teyrn’s roof, but Malcolm was fairly tired of Eamon condescending to him and calling him ‘boy.’ With some people, it didn’t bother him, because he knew they meant it more affectionately than anything. But Eamon? Not so much. 

“Maybe you should think about doing the same!” Líadan shot back at Eamon. “You go on about how important Ferelden is to you and how important the Theirins are to you _and_ to this country, and yet I’m not sure you care whether they’re happy or not. You wanted Cailan to leave Anora, who was already his wife and whom he did care about in his own way. And now Alistair has pretty much resigned himself to marrying Anora because Ferelden needs a queen and she’s the best candidate as she’s done the job before and, oh, what do you know, turns out she’s probably not barren after all. It doesn’t matter if he wants to or not, it’s all about the damnable duty he has. It’s bad enough that circumstance is forcing that fate on Alistair, and now you want to force the same sort of thing on Malcolm, when he isn’t even the king?”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow at Alistair. “You’re going to marry Anora? Really?”

“Possibly. Seems the best option and I really can’t afford to put it off any longer.”

“But... _Anora_?”

“You know what? How about we get back to that plan about killing Eamon?” Alistair put a hand on the latch to the door, and then stopped when Eamon spoke again.

The arl’s words were easily heard through the door of Fergus’ study. “Maric’s involvement with elves caused no end of misery on both sides. You should be grateful about putting a stop to this before it gets out of hand.” There was a pause. And then: “Tell me it hasn’t gotten out of hand.”

Another awkward silence followed.

“Open that door _right now_ ,” Malcolm told Alistair.

The king did as he was told, his countenance nearly as dark as his brother’s as they walked in. Eamon stopped his glare at Líadan and turned to the two brothers, his eyes widening slightly in the unasked question of wondering exactly how much they’d heard. Whereas the arl stood behind Fergus’ desk, Líadan stood in front of the fireplace, her hands clenched in tight fists. She didn’t even look over at Malcolm or Alistair as the king shut the door behind them. Instead, she kept her furious gaze fixed on Eamon. “I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer,” the elf finally said once the door had closed.

Eamon frowned, looking less angry and more methodical and detached than Malcolm had thought when he’d heard the man yelling. It disturbed him to think that this might be some sort of fully calculated political move by Eamon. “That’s certainly answer enough,” said the arl, and then he shifted his cool gaze over to Malcolm. “And you. We need to discuss this before it goes any further, as obviously it’s gone far enough already—”

Malcolm tried to cut him off. “You don’t even know—”

Yet it was Eamon who managed to cut him off in return. “Do I? Even now, Maric’s relations with elves put Ferelden in danger. You and Alistair need to watch yourselves. You cannot show how upset you are about Fiona’s death. You shouldn’t even be this upset over that woman. She wasn’t a mother to either of you. And—”

“She cared far more about me than you ever did,” Alistair said, his eyes narrowed, and one of his eyebrows arched in a particularly alarming way that Malcolm knew signaled the start of his brother’s temper. While Alistair usually didn’t show it, he did have one that could rant and rave and hold a fairly good sized grudge with the best of them. “My parents trusted you with my childhood and you never proved worthy of that trust. You’re hardly the person who can judge whether or not Fiona was a mother to us or not. You’re certainly not the one who gets to decide how upset we should be. That’s our decision. That’s our reaction and _nothing_ in which you have a say.”

“That woman gave you both away as babes and you’re standing here and defending her?” asked Eamon, seeming truly taken aback. “Openly reacting such as you both are puts this entire country in danger!”

“And your shouting doesn’t?” Malcolm asked when Eamon paused to take a breath. “We heard you all the way down the hall.”

Eamon made a faintly disgusted face. “That’s your elven blood showing itself. No human would be able to hear so clearly, only elves and elf-blooded.”

Malcolm gaped at the arl, shocked at the blatant racism in Eamon’s disdain. “What have you got against elves? I would expect this sort of thing from Isolde, but I never expected to hear it from _you_.” 

The arl’s eyes flicked over to Líadan, and then back to Malcolm and Alistair. “Maric once chose an elf over...” he trailed off, and grief briefly softened his hard look. Then he became resolute once more. “Nevermind that. What matters is that you, young man, are playing games where you need to be serious.” He motioned toward Líadan but kept his eyes on Malcolm. “Are you going to tell me that you love her? Because you told me the same thing about that witch. That’s what made you blind to your duty back then and the same sort of thing is happening now and I’m not sure you even see it.”

“I’m not going to tell you anything, actually, because I don’t have to,” said Malcolm. “None of this is any of your business. And Líadan was right. For all the royalist that you are, you certainly don’t care a whit about the royal family being _happy_ in any way. You just want us to exist for Ferelden and that’s _it_.”

“Ferelden is far more important than either of you. And for Ferelden to continue to exist as it is, it needs your blood on the throne, whether any of us likes it or not. Your bloodline cannot continue to exist if you continue to consort with elves.” He pointed at Líadan. “She is a direct threat, and I daresay as much a threat as the other elf was.”

“Tell me you aren’t talking about our mother,” said Alistair, taking a step closer to Eamon. “Because without her, there wouldn’t even _be_ any—”

“This isn’t about Fiona!” Eamon said. His nostrils flared in anger as he placed his hands flat against the top of the desk and looked down. “This is about Ferelden. This is about history repeating itself. During the Rebellion, your father once fell in with—he would insist that he fell in _love_ with—an elf. He chose her over my very own sister, who was his betrothed. He nearly threw everything away for that elf for over what amounted to nothing. In the end, he killed her for being a spy, of all things. The woman he’d claimed to love. The woman for whom he’d pushed aside my sister. He—”

“How would you even know this?” asked Alistair. “You were a boy during most of the Rebellion. You and Teagan didn’t even fight until the very end, when you returned from the Free Marches where your father had sent you to keep you safe.”

Eamon didn’t look up at the king when he answered, instead keeping his eyes on his hands as they brushed aside various pieces of parchment. “Loghain told me. On the night before his execution when I went to see him at his request.”

“I’ll just ignore the fact that you never mentioned that little tidbit before in favor of asking this: didn’t it occur to you that Loghain was maybe, oh, I don’t know... _lying_?”

“No. He had nothing to gain from such a thing. He thought it best to warn me, since I insisted on putting Theirin blood back on the throne over his apparently far more reasonable daughter. So far, it seems that his words of caution were warranted.” Eamon’s eyes went flinty and cold. “One Theirin already chose an elf over everything else, and I will not see that happen again.” He moved his harsh gaze from Alistair to Líadan, and then to Malcolm. “So how bad is it this time? Do you love her or not, boy?”

Malcolm didn’t look over at Líadan because he knew that what he truly felt would show in his eyes, and he couldn’t risk Eamon seeing it. He didn’t deserve to know and he didn’t want to give the other man that much power over them. “I’m not answering that.”

Eamon’s eyebrow lifted slightly, as did the corner of his mouth, as if he were pleased. 

Magic snapped once over near the fireplace, and then Líadan pushed past Malcolm and Alistair and out the door. In her wake, the fire flared far brighter than before. Malcolm caught a glimpse of her face before the door closed—just enough to see grief and pain fighting against sudden tears.

“Perhaps it isn’t too late after all,” said Eamon.

Malcolm didn’t bother with the arl. “You fix this problem,” he said to Alistair. “I’m going after her.” Then he left the room.

The door hadn’t even shut when Alistair started yelling.


	57. Chapter 57

**Chapter 57**

“For You are the fire at the heart of the world

And comfort is only Yours to give.”

— _Canticle of Transfigurations 12:6_

**Malcolm**

Líadan left enough of a trail that even a shoddy tracker like Malcolm was able to follow it with ease. The rain that had teased on and off throughout the day delivered full on its promise as day turned to night, and now rain fell from the dark, cloudy sky at a steady pace. Mud squelched under Malcolm’s boots as he traced the shallow, already water-filled footsteps Líadan had left in the sodden ground. He soon figured out the elf’s intended destination, and he ignored her tracks entirely as he strode swiftly for the bluffs that stood eternal watch over the Waking Sea. It was the place he’d retreated to many times as a child to curl up in the corner of the old, ten-feet high defense wall, back pressed against the cool stone as he sat and watched the ocean. The same place where he’d had that odd confrontation with a crow that Líadan had witnessed and teased him for later.

It made sense, in a way, that she would choose to go to a place where they’d once been confronted with the memory of Morrigan. Only an idiot wouldn’t have drawn the parallels in that far-less-than-little confrontation with Eamon earlier to how he’d argued with the arl about Morrigan during the Blight. And while he’d vigorously defended how he felt about Morrigan to Eamon, he’d not done the same with Líadan after the arl had said some particularly nasty things. Not that he didn’t feel that she deserved defending—quite the opposite—or that he didn’t feel like standing up to Eamon, but because the man just had no right to be privy to any of it. Yet his lack of answer had served to prove something entirely different from what he’d intended and Líadan had walked out as a result. Well, as a combined result of Malcolm’s non-answer and Eamon’s smug smile. 

He wondered how much trouble he’d get in if he went back and punched that look right off the arl’s face. It could be worth it. Then again, that would lose him precious time to correct an assumption that Líadan had made that desperately needed correction. Or enlightenment. Or _something_ that wouldn’t have her thinking that he thought less of her. Or that he hadn’t been telling the truth earlier that day. He’d meant what he said. He had to help her realize that.

Malcolm heard the distant fog bells first from Highever’s harbor, and as he drew closer, the thunder of high waves crashing against the cliff face. When he stepped out of the small copse of trees, he saw a bank of storm clouds stacked over the sea as they prepared to fully descend on the waiting coast. Lightning occasionally lit up the darkness, a backdrop to the Dalish woman sitting near the edge of the cliff. Her knees were brought up close to her face so she could rest her chin on them, and her arms were tightly wrapped around her legs. Her hood wasn’t up, as instead it seemed she’d elected to let the rain plaster her hair to her head. She didn’t acknowledge him as he approached, even though he made sure to make enough noise so as not to startle her. He’d had a rough day as it was—he didn’t particularly need a lightning bolt to the gut, or anywhere else, for that matter.

Ignoring the mud, Malcolm sat next to her and mirrored her pose, very conscious of the cold water dampening the seat of his breeches. She still remained silent and he stole a glance over at her. Her eyebrows were low, and a scowl dominated her face, telling him she would be quite growly were he to try to engage her in conversation. Yet there was a certain hint of misery couched in the edges of her eyes, and he couldn’t be entirely sure if all the water coursing down her face was just rain or the remnant of tears. He’d gotten them into this mess, he knew, and it was his responsibility to bring them through it, if he could. “Aw,” he said, keeping his voice quiet, “you look like a drowned nug.” Humor, as he’d discovered in his time of knowing Líadan, usually resulted in fewer bolts of lightning directed at his person.

The hint of a smile touched the corners of her lips before she hid them by ducking behind her arms that were crossed over her knees. “Your brother said that once.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Did he?”

“And I threatened to castrate him.”

Part of him wanted to tell her that she’d yet to make good on any of those threats of castration. The other part of him kindly informed his impulsiveness that saying so would practically guarantee him permanent separation from his manhood. “Well, then... I take it back. You look like a drowned, really intimidating, scary... something.”

“You mean like an elf? A Dalish elf?” Her question lingered in the air between them, laced with its true, unspoken meaning of _are you ashamed of me because of it?_

“No. I mean, yes, you’re an elf and Dalish, but it’s...” he trailed off as he struggled to figure out what to say and how to say it without making things worse when he only wanted to make things better. Which, now that he thought about it, always made things worse when he tried to explain his thoughts and feelings to her. He made a frustrated noise, and then dropped onto his back in the grass, heedless of the water soaking through his cloak. Everything always seemed so clear in his head, but when he went to put the thoughts into words, they always ended up muddled and jumbled and misunderstood. And then she’d give him the look she was giving him now... oh. Too late. Already, she’d turned and fixed her scowling gaze down at him.

“I told you once before that I will never be ashamed of what I am. I am not and will not be ashamed that I am an elf or that I am Dalish. I will not _submit_ myself to Eamon’s judgement. And neither will I submit myself to yours. If you are ashamed of this, then you should... and we shouldn’t... then you aren’t who I thought you were.” She briefly met his eyes, and then looked away and toward the sea.

He stared at her turned back and clawed for what to say. “I’m not ashamed. I was never... I’m _not_. I know what gave you that idea, and—”

Líadan didn’t turn around when she interrupted him. “You defended your relationship with Morrigan to Eamon, and when he asks you about me, with me standing _right there,_ you didn’t give me the same courtesy. You didn’t even try. And I know you heard the things he said, or at least some of them, especially the things he said when you were in the room with us. And then he asks you that very pointed question and I expected you to verbally punch him in the face like he more than deserved, and you didn’t. Yet with Morrigan, you yelled at him almost every chance you got, but, then again, she was human.”

“This isn’t about you being an elf.”

“No?”

“No.” He sighed and threw his forearm over his eyes while he tried to think. Normally, he’d stare up at the sky, but the raindrops pelting him in the face made that nigh impossible. He drew one of his legs up, tapping away with his foot on the wet grass. “It’s about him not deserving to know. About nothing with _us_ being any of _his_ business. I never should have deemed to answer to him about Morrigan, and I wanted to be damn sure it didn’t happen with you. You’re right. You don’t have to submit yourself to his judgement, and you shouldn’t. Me refusing to answer was my way of trying to say that, and, once again, I royally screwed it up. I’m not ashamed of you or being involved with you—or whatever it is that we are—and if you want me to march right back into the castle and give Eamon what for, I’d be happy to. Just say the word. Or, if you want, I can just stand by and whistle innocently while you pummel him with lightning. That works, too.”

She didn’t answer. He peeked through the crook of his arm and saw that she still kept watch on the sea and the storm rolling ever closer. 

“Or if you really want,” he said, doing his best to sound cheerful even as he covered his eyes again, “I can run across all the battlements shouting at the top of my lungs that I love you. That _might_ answer Eamon’s question to your satisfaction—granted, he’d probably hate that answer, especially given in that way—and should certainly go a long way in proving that I’m anything but ashamed about how I feel about you. Even though sometimes you do your scary Dalish elf thing and I get all...” he trailed off when he was fairly certain he felt a presence looming over him. And, given the cheekiness of what he’d just said, it stood to reason that the Dalish elf in question was contemplating exactly how she would murder him. Yet he went on, deciding he hadn’t much to lose. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. But my point still stands. I will shout my love from the veritable rooftops, if you want. Well, maybe you might want me to wait until it isn’t storming, because then I’d stand less a chance of being hit by lightning from the _sky_ as opposed to from, say, _you_. I figure you should get total exclusivity on that kind of thing.”

He moved his arm and peeked again to confirm that, yes, the elf was, in fact, looming over him. Something which he hadn’t thought possible for any elf, given how most of them had a physical stature considerably smaller than his. Then again, mental and emotional stature lent a lot to someone’s ability to loom, and Líadan had that in _spades_ , and so she loomed, despite her size. He met her gaze, and felt a faint flicker of hope when he thought he might be seeing the slightest hint of amusement there. Or murderous intent, because sometimes he had some trouble telling the difference between the two when it came to her. 

“I don’t know how you do it.” Her voice was quiet, and held none of the angry accusation it had carried before. “You say all the wrong things and muck everything up, and—” she paused as he went to speak, cutting him off by lifting a hand. “No, let me finish. When you’re in this kind of state, you’ll babble on pretty much forever if you aren’t stopped.”

Malcolm remained silent. He couldn’t really argue with that incredibly accurate observation.

When it became clear that he wouldn’t try to interrupt, she moved the upraised hand to splay her fingers on his chest. “So you say all these totally wrong things, and yet, in the end, you say exactly the right thing. It’s really a wonder at how you manage it.”

“I think a large part of it had to do with me pointing out that you were right,” he said. “I’ve found that usually goes a really long way to fixing something I’ve completely messed up. I know you’d be surprised to find this out, but I mess things up a _lot_.” He offered her a smile, ignoring the rain landing on his face in favor of observing her as she moved closer. “Seriously. It’s amazing that I haven’t been killed yet with all the things I’ve messed up by using words alone. I mean, I’m sure that most of the times I’ve said ‘I hate you’ I really meant ‘I love you’ but I mucked it up like I do everything else—”

“Malcolm.”

He blinked at finding her mouth within inches of his—when had she gotten that close?—and once again struggled for words. “I... what?” Her hand on his chest moved upward to cup his cheek, her thumb brushing against the stubble on his skin, and he started to forget what words were. 

“Shut up.” Then to punctuate her statement, she dipped her head forward and captured his lips with hers. And then words _entirely_ failed him, but he didn’t need those infernal, troublesome things any longer. Not for this.

Thunder tumbled through the clouds above them as it chased the long fingers of lightning, yet it did nothing to mask the soft sounds she made in the back of her throat as he deepened the kiss. This was different; this was new. This was something on equal ground where he knew no more or less than she, and neither of them had any hidden agendas. From the sounds she made as his mouth quested and the determined work of her nimble fingers on various buckles, he could quite clearly see what she wanted under the cold rain. Pressed against him as she was and how his own fingers fumbled at the buckles on her armor, she would easily be able to see what he wanted. When cuirasses fell to the muddy ground after pauldrons and greaves and gauntlets, he knew he was in over his head—but this was nothing like before.

There was no sense of suddenly being overwhelmed by the intense newness of it all. No sudden flare or spark, but a slow burn that, when it finally burst into true flame, had taken him by surprise. A pleasant surprise and certainly not unwelcome, but that didn’t mean he’d been looking for it. Nor did it mean that it hadn’t been there the entire time, embers waiting under ashes to be banked anew. She was such an integral part of his life—and he couldn’t even place when it had happened, exactly—that he couldn’t fathom her not being in every aspect of it.

Including this.

As if there hadn’t been a week’s pause from the last time they’d found themselves in this situation, as if they had set aside their grief from the deaths within that week, they easily discovered the steps they had taken before. She had straddled him again, and though he remained with his back on the chill, wet ground, it didn’t register. He had no idea where his linen tunic had ended up. Perhaps it was the same place as her breastband and tunic, but he didn’t really care, not when her warm fingers scraped across his bare chest. Not when he could finally caress the curves he’d only glimpsed for one scant moment before the demands of duty had barged in and covered them. Not when he could apply his tongue there and draw a delightful gasp from her that sent her fingers once again to the laces of his breeches. Not when each of their breeches had joined the rest of their forgotten clothing in favor of rain-slickened skin pressing against heated skin despite in the cold air brought by the storm. Not when smalls were hastily abandoned to the same fate and they raced into territory they hadn’t before explored.

They barely slowed as the storm continued above, as if each were afraid that another interruption would be near and this moment would never be theirs to take again. It was his turn to gasp when she settled fully onto him. At the sound, her lips quirked into a smile that he fleetingly saw as his eyes fluttered between open and shut at the sensation of feeling only her heat within and without. Then he felt rather than heard the vibrations of her laugh, and he opened his eyes just in time to catch her rearing back with a smile that he’d never seen before on her, and one he wanted to see her give time and time again. Lightning arced in the sky behind her, and then the rain fell harder on their bare skin as she began to rock. His hands shifted from where they’d clutched at the grass and shimmied up the flare of her hips and higher as he thrust upward in answer. 

As their bodies moved together in counterpoint to the storm, he rose up, drawing her closer with fingers digging into the muscles of her shoulders. Her hands cupped his face and pulled him in for a demanding kiss, tongues clashing until they broke apart for ragged breaths. White heat burned somewhere within him, and as her movements became more frenzied, he knew the same need had awakened within her and they were rapidly heading for the same precipice. He tasted the rain on the skin at the base of her throat before moving to nip at her neck. More noises of pleasure escaped her mouth and his left arm wrapped around her lower body and sought to bring her flush against him. Her head dropped to place a kiss behind his ear that turned into a light moan when the fingers of his right hand dropped to find what he knew would bring her release with his. He’d promised he wouldn’t leave her, and he certainly wouldn’t with this.

The storm broke over the coast, and the ensuing thunder rumbled over their shared gasps. Then her body went rigid and clutched around him, and the roaring he heard was in his own ears as he followed her into the same exquisite release. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and smiled as the rain poured in sheets around them and lightning lit the clouds again.

“That wasn’t your lightning, I noticed,” he said against her flushed skin.

She brushed her fingers through his damp hair as she pulled away just far enough to glare at him. But it was a mock-glare. He could easily tell from the lift of her brow and the way her eyes brightened in amusement. “I thought I told you to shut up?”

He couldn’t help the grin that formed on his lips. “If that was your way of telling me to shut up, I think you should’ve tried that a lot sooner. I would’ve been more game for being quiet if you had. You know, if you—”

Líadan kissed him again to cut him off, this time without any demand beyond him to stop talking. Her fingers twined behind his neck for a moment before drifting to play with the leather thong. When she encountered the pendant and what lay next to it, she frowned and moved back so that she could look down. She plucked once at the dangling ring, and then bit her lip and rolled away before he could stop her. His hand grasped at the air where hers had just been. She quickly found her clothing and set to putting them back on instead of telling him what was on her mind. 

“So _that’s_ where they all ended up,” he said, trying to keep the mood light. He didn’t want this to be ruined. Not just because it wouldn’t happen again if it was, but because it just wouldn’t be _fair_. And for once, he really wanted life to somewhat resemble fairness. “I half-wondered if we’d just tossed them over the side of the cliff. Can you imagine Eamon’s face if he saw is stumbling back in nothing but our cloaks and some strategically placed mud?” Relief surged through him when she quietly snorted, and then tossed his own clothing back at him. No tears, then, and no anger. She’d only needed time to gather herself. He could understand that. So he gave her what she needed and struggled with his smalls and breeches and tunic before settling a glare on his armor. The gambeson was entirely soaked through and seemed to weigh an extra ten pounds. While the silverite on the armor itself wouldn’t rust, he didn’t relish trying to buckle it on over the sodden gambeson. 

Which was nothing to say compared to the state of his cloak. Its entire back was pretty much plastered with mud. He was certain that if his seven-year-old self had seen the state of his cloak right then, he would’ve been proud. Then he shrugged and put it on anyway. It would sort-of keep the rain off him from now on. Not that he wasn’t already completely soaked, but whatever. He did the buckles on the cuirass and chucked the other pieces of his armor inside, electing to carry the rest instead of trying to wrestle the armor into place over the gambeson. Then he set the cuirass against the stone wall with his sword and looked over at Líadan. She was watching him in return, and while there wasn’t anger or hurt lurking in her eyes, he could see the uncertainty. “It was in Fiona’s pack,” he said after a moment. “I can’t just leave it out. Putting it in a pouch didn’t seem like a good idea since I can get pickpocketed and easily separated from it. That left this.” He drew his finger along the leather thong to illustrate, and then shrugged. “Pretty much the only choice left if I wanted to be the least bit responsible.”

“I know.” A half-smile, wry and more than a little rueful. “I know. Just... you know I believe you, right?” She didn’t wait for an answer and strode toward him as she continued, “It’s irrational of me, in a way, to wonder even now if you’ll leave with her, if given the chance.”

“Setting aside the probability that I most likely can’t, I don’t think she’d want me to, nor would I want to. She and I... we have very different lives ahead of us. Do I want to find her still? Yes. Absolutely. Will I stay? No. Whatever she and I had, it was good while it existed, but our lives have changed since then. I don’t think it was ever destined to last, and I honestly think she knew that, in a way.” He paused, as Líadan was close to him again, her right hand plying at the ring, while her left hand rested just above his hip.

Her brows came together in puzzlement and she looked up at him. “Did you try it on?”

“Er, no?”

“Why not?”

“I had more important things to do. Like, keeping you from killing Eamon, for instance.”

She tapped a finger against his chest, right below where the pendant and ring usually fell. “We still need to look for her.”

Malcolm lifted an eyebrow. “We?”

“And here I thought we were a team.”

He felt like smacking himself in the forehead, having yet again stumbled into the morass that was his inability to talk without offending. Then he gave a sigh, put an arm around her shoulder, and led her over to the corner of the wall, where they would be a little more out of the storm. The thunder and lightning had mostly died down except for the show out over the ocean, but the rain hadn’t much let up. And all signs pointed to them having another in-depth conversation, especially with his ability to screw it up, and he figured they might as well be sitting down and somewhat sheltered from the storm.

After giving him a dubious look, Líadan followed and sat next to him. “Are we?” she asked once they’d both braced their backs against the rough stone behind them.

Malcolm, not without a certain amount of caution, put his arm around her shoulders again, and then pulled her close, wanting to share both body heat in the lingering cold, and to somehow show her that they _were_ a team. “I just didn’t... I didn’t think you’d want to help me search for a woman who happens to be my former... well, you know what I mean.” Though he knew it was ridiculous for him to blush and stammer about such a simple word, especially considering what they’d done together only a short time ago.

Líadan laughed at his reaction. “Lover? Yes, I’m well aware of what was. She was also my friend. I’m not angry with her like I once was. I want to know what she’s up to. I want to know if this plan of hers is dangerous or not. And I don’t intend on letting you go alone or just with Gunnar.” Her arm snaked out from under her cloak to poke him in the chest. “You promised you wouldn’t leave. You need to make good on that promise, even while you search for Morrigan. And that means _we_ search for her.”

He raised both his brows at her declaration. “Well, I guess that shows _me_.”

She suddenly half-turned, stretched her arms around his neck and untied the thong. Then she removed the ring, took his hand, opened it, and placed the ring on his palm. “You should try it on.”

Malcolm frowned down at the ring, and then gave Líadan a quizzical look. “Is this some sort of test?”

“For you? No. For the ring? Yes.”

He felt vaguely disconcerted, but after another questioning glance, slid the ring on his finger. _North, ever traveling north. Pillars of rock standing at attention in a blazing sun, dust drifting in between their shadows as wind carried it over a barren field. North again, and then trees sprung up where the pillars had been, leafy green and alive unlike the bare rocks. A glance upward and there’s a stark, white spire in the distance, not unlike a spire from the Grand Cathedral, but this one is natural, a rock formation at the top of a hulking mountain waiting behind the forest. A crow calls from the trees, and around the spire flies an iridescent maroon dragon and the panic flares again—_

Malcolm hurriedly removed the ring before he felt any more of the panic or the fear or saw any more sodding dragons. He stared the ring cupped in the palm of his hand with more than a little fear of his own, feeling like the thing should be burning through his hand. 

“What did you see?” Líadan asked.

He took a few more calming breaths, and then told her everything he’d seen. Then he said, “I think Fiona did make it better. Maybe.”

“She did. I know exactly where Morrigan is going.” Líadan nodded in absolute sureness of the answer. “Arlathan.”

“I thought Arlathan was destroyed.” He slid the ring back on the leather thong she wordlessly handed him, and then let her retie it back around his neck. 

She touched the ring once more before settling against his shoulder. “So it’s told, but with some of the things we found in the Deep Roads regarding the elves and dwarves, I’m not sure what happened in the aftermath or if it was destroyed at all, exactly. There’s legends that say it was merely swallowed by the ground and buried and not really destroyed in the literal sense of the word. More like... made inaccessible by pretty much everyone. In any event, the forest itself remains and could give some good clues as to what happened and where more of the ancient lost knowledge could be.”

“We should go there, too, you think?”

“Not right away. We do need to find what records we can at Orzammar and you’re expected to visit there anyway. Might as well make use of the stop. Plus, it’ll throw Morrigan off that you aren’t heading straight for where you believe she is.”

“True.” He idly wondered what Morrigan would think of the two of them working together toward finding her and the tactics they were using to track her down.

“I made you think of her.”

“Um...” He tried to come up with a diplomatic answer and entirely failed at finding one. “You did mention the ring. And then you did want me to try it on. I’m just saying.” He pursed his lips and looked out toward the ocean, to the north, where Morrigan was. “And since we’ll be chasing after her, she’ll be a little on my mind for the next few months or however long it takes to find her.”

“I know.” Her voice held a note of resignation and a touch of sadness. 

“Not like _that_ , you know. Or even like how I used to feel. I won’t be dwelling on what happened between her and I.” He was struck by the memory of Líadan in the library at Vigil’s Keep, informing him in no uncertain terms that dwelling on what had happened with Morrigan would never make it better, only worse. And, for some reason, it felt like that had been a lifetime ago.

“Did dwelling on it ever help?”

“No. No, it never did.”

“Told you so.”

He started chuckling. “How long have you been waiting to say that?”

“Months, really. Felt pretty good to say it, too.” Then she was laughing along with him.

Malcolm got to his feet, bringing Líadan with him. “Come on. It seems to me like we’ve got a trip to organize. Oh, and an arl to put into place. When I left, Alistair was yelling at him.” He buckled his sword back around his waist. “Theoretically, he could still be yelling, if you wanted to catch the tail end of that show.”

Líadan picked up her stave from where it leaned against the wall. “It _has_ been a while since we’ve seen Alistair in a good rage. He’s pretty good at the yelling thing once he works up to it, you know.”

“I am well aware of that. Have you forgotten how many times he’s yelled at me?”

“Like you weren’t yelling right back. And those were some of the best times during the Blight and after. I mean, you and... you know what? Nevermind.” She spun and started walking quickly toward the castle. 

He frowned and loped after her, easily catching up. “Oh, come on. You can’t leave it at that. What were you going to say?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Aw, don’t be like that.”

She came to a halt and spun around without warning, making him bump into her, nearly knocking her onto her backside in the muddy path. “I’ll say this once and I’ll never say it again, and you had _better not_ pass it along to anyone else. Ever.”

He couldn’t stop the smirk. “This has to be really good, then.”

Líadan tapped the flat of her staff’s blade against his chest for good measure. “One word, and I will end you, Malcolm Theirin. Mark my words.”

“Duly marked.”

She scowled up at him, as if not quite believing that he would behave himself, but she relented. “Fine. You and Alistair, when you get... what’s the right term... worked into a self-righteous rant, I guess... you both sound fairly...” she trailed off and mumbled the next word.

“What was that?” He moved his head closer to hear. 

“Hot. You sound kind of hot. There, I said it. Creators, I sound like _Oghren_.” She turned and started for the keep again.

“Really?” he called after her, and then ran to catch up. 

“Not repeating it. And stop looking so smug. I don’t even need to see you to know you have that smug grin. Keep it up and what happened _will not_ happen again.” But then she glanced back at him and smiled, and he knew that they were okay.

Gunnar met them just outside the barbican, happily barking and running a couple tight circles around them before racing inside. The guards merely nodded, and Malcolm assumed then that Alistair or Fergus hadn’t yet panicked over his and Líadan’s whereabouts on Highever’s grounds. He doubted that Eamon would be particularly concerned about anything to do with him, and he honestly far preferred it that way. Without needing to discuss where they were going, the two of them headed for Fergus’ study. Wynne stood at the end of the corridor they needed to go through to reach the study, standing right next to what Malcolm recognized using his templar abilities as a ward of silence. Ah, so the fight _was_ still going on.

Wynne folded her arms across her chest, gave each of them an appraising look, and then _tsked_ at their muddied state. “You both should have come in out of that storm earlier. Look at you! You’re soaked to the bone and tracking mud everywhere!”

Malcolm glanced behind them and noticed the amount of mud they’d managed to track throughout the castle. Apparently he’d have a lot of apologizing to do to servants, as well as seeing that they got something extra for the cleanup. He’d have done the cleaning himself, but had been informed more than once as a child, by the servants, that it was their job and they preferred it if he let them do it. While he still hadn’t liked the idea, he understood that it would be awkward to do otherwise. He slowly turned back to face the elder mage. “Yeah, that’s totally not something I’ve ever heard in this castle.” Then he offered her a small smile to let her know that she hadn’t stirred up bad memories. “Good times. Well, at least looking back. Wasn’t so fantastic when I was grounded. That was awful.”

“I’m sure it was.” Wynne cast a look down the corridor. “Alistair and Eamon are... having a discussion. They were mentioning some rather delicate matters, so I cast the ward. However, I’m not sure it’s good for either of them that this argument has carried on for so long.”

Malcolm scowled. “Not sure if you’d feel that way if you knew some of the things Eamon said. They were...” He sighed, knowing that even as much as he wanted to join in with the shouting, the argument did need to end, at least out of consideration for peace under Fergus’ roof.

“That bad?”

Líadan snorted. “I’m still not sure _how_ I managed not to hit him with lightning.”

“Maybe you just save that sort of thing for me.” Malcolm shot her a grin.

She rolled her eyes in response. “Yes, that must be it. Why didn’t I think of that before?”

When he looked over at Wynne again, the mage had pressed a finger to her lips in thought as she studied each of them more carefully than she had when they’d approached earlier. Then a smile curled at the corners of her lips and she gently touched each of them on the arm. “Be good to each other. I don’t want to have to lecture either of you if you do otherwise.” She stepped easily around them, leaving the pair staring confusedly at her departing form. 

“How did she—” Líadan started to ask.

“Best not to wonder when it comes to her,” said Malcolm. “Especially if she’s holding back on a lecture. Just saying.” Then he stepped past the barrier, Líadan right behind him, and they immediately heard Ferelden’s king still yelling at his nearly-retired chancellor. 

“I have given you _my_ concessions,” came Alistair’s still-annoyed voice, “and I will have _yours_. You will not speak of elves or anyone with elven blood as you’ve done tonight. My own heritage aside, the elves helped us defeat the sodding _Blight_. If that isn’t something to warrant redemption in your eyes then I don’t think even the Maker himself could earn it from you. And I don’t think he would want it, either, coming from a man like you. You will leave my brother alone. That is a royal decree that you cannot ignore. Stay out of his life. It’s bad enough that you and the Crown and Ferelden has to interfere with mine. And if I ever hear about you saying a single thing bad about Líadan or Fiona, I _will_ have you thrown in Fort Drakon, Arl of Redcliffe or no.”

Yet Eamon still tried to sway the king to his way of seeing things, illustrating to Malcolm exactly how the argument had gone on for this long. “Your Majesty, Alistair, you must see the—”

“No.” There was a rustle and a soft thud. “See those letters? They were Fiona’s, ones she got from Duncan from when Malcolm and I were growing up. She kept them.” Another rustle. “See those marks? Do you know what they are?” A pause, and then a mumble. “Yes. Exactly. _Tears._ I’m half-surprised you even recognized them, since I’m not sure you’ve shed a single one when it comes to Malcolm or me or the Theirins. Or at all, really. One would think that after what happened with Redcliffe during the Blight that—nevermind. Either you get it or you don’t, Eamon, and I’m tired of trying to explain it to you when you’ll only see your own agenda. I’ll not speak or hear of this anymore, unless it’s you delivering a heartfelt apology, and nothing less.”

“Then good night, your Majesty.” Eamon’s tone conveyed something far more dark than a simple good night. The study door opened and the chancellor bustled out and straight into the glowering faces of Malcolm and Líadan. He stopped short and glanced from one to the other several times before his eyes narrowed. Then he heaved a weary sigh. “Maker’s blood. Of course. I hope you _both_ know what you’re getting into. Excuse me.” He pushed past them and continued in a huff down the hallway. 

Alistair poked his head out of the study. “Is he gone yet? Or do I have to yell more? I’m a bit tired of all the shouting, to be honest.”

Malcolm switched his gaze from the corridor to his brother. “He’s gone.”

“Thank the Maker,” said the king. Then he motioned the other two into the study, where they huddled near the fire as Alistair studied them both. “What, in the name of Andraste, happened to you?”

“There was a storm,” said Líadan, “and we got caught in it.”

“I’ll say,” said Malcolm. 

She punched him in the arm.

Alistair laughed. “Good to know you two haven’t changed even after all that unpleasantness.”

“Wouldn’t go that far,” Líadan said.

At the same time, Malcolm said, “It wasn’t _all_ unpleasant.”

“Just what are you two going on about?”

Malcolm slowly turned away from the fire, as did Líadan, to face the king who leaned against the teyrn’s desk. Neither of them answered Alistair’s question. 

The king crossed his arms and frowned at them. “Fine. Be that way. Or....” he trailed off, and then gaped. “You didn’t. You... You did that in a _storm_? Is that why you’re so... You could’ve gotten hit by lightning!” He pointed at Líadan. “And not from her! You could’ve died from that and exactly how would you expect me to explain that death to Ferelden? Seriously, what is _wrong_ with the two of you? It isn’t like there aren’t plenty of perfectly good beds around here that aren’t completely open to the storm that hit. Why couldn’t—you know what? I’m just going to stop talking now.”

“You did say you were tired of all the shouting,” said Malcolm.

“I suppose I did say that.” He sighed. “Well, as you probably heard, Eamon should be leaving well enough alone from now on. He’s going back to Redcliffe tomorrow, seeing as I have no more use for him.” Alistair raised his hands defensively. “His words, not mine. Just thought I’d point that out.”

“What was your concession?” Líadan asked.

Alistair stood up so that he no longer leaned on the desk. “I’m to marry Anora, if she’s amenable to the idea.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s what’s best for Ferelden. It means a queen who already knows how to be one, and I won’t need to find another chancellor, either. Of course, it won’t happen unless she’s okay with not running the show like she did when Cailan was king. But she and I have talked often enough since the end of the Blight enough for me to know there aren’t any true hard feelings. And she does care about Ferelden. Differently than Eamon, of course, which now that I think about it, is a bit of a relief. I’m sending her a letter tomorrow to get her thoughts. She might reject the entire thing out of hand. We’ll see.”

“I suppose we will,” said Malcolm, feeling the guilt creep in at what Alistair had to give up in his duty to the throne.

“Too bad we’ll be in Orzammar and not able to see her reaction in person.” Alistair grinned, his way of telling his brother not to fret over what had to be done. “Bet you it’ll be a good one. Speaking of bets, we need to go find Fergus.” With that, he moved toward the door.

Líadan arched a suspicious eyebrow. “Why?”

The king’s grin didn’t diminish. “Because he owes me a few sovereigns, now.”


	58. Chapter 58

**Chapter 58**

“Elgar’nan had defeated his father, the sun, and all was covered in darkness. Pleased with himself, Elgar’nan sought to console his mother, the earth, by replacing all that the sun had destroyed. But the earth knew that without the sun, nothing could grow. She whispered to Elgar’nan the truth, and pleaded with him to release his father, but Elgar’nan’s pride was great, and his vengeance was terrible, and he refused.

It was at this moment that Mythal walked out of the sea of the Earth’s tears and onto the land. She placed her hand on Elgar’nan’s brow, and at her touch he grew calm and knew his anger had led him astray. Humbled, Elgar’nan went to the place where the sun was buried and spoke to him. Elgar’nan said he would release the sun if the sun promised to be gentle and return to the earth each night. The sun, feeling remorse at what he had done, agreed.

And so the sun rose again in the sky, and shone his golden light upon the earth. Elgar’nan and Mythal, with the help of the earth and the sun, brought back to life all the wondrous things that the sun had destroyed, and they grew and thrived. And that night, when he sun had to sleep, Mythal gathered the glowing earth around his bed, and formed it into a sphere to be placed in the sky, a pale reflection of the sun’s true glory.”

—from _The Tale of Mythal’s Touch_ , as told by Gisharel, keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish

**Malcolm**

“This means we’re going into the Deep Roads,” Malcolm said after he’d read through the translation Hildur had given of the documents the other Wardens had found on their way to Kal’Hirol. “Not just the Shaperate for information, but we’ll actually need to go take a look at Cad’halash thaig.”

The fire crackled in the silence left as the group of Wardens contemplated the possibility. Líadan scowled and threw the stick Malcolm had been using to prod at the fire _into_ the fire, which made him scowl at her. Sigrun looked positively gleeful at the chance to return to the Deep Roads, with Hildur not far behind on enthusiasm. Malcolm couldn’t tell if Sten looked happy about the Deep Roads or not, since he couldn’t tell the difference between Sten irritated or ecstatic, really. Though, when he’d once asked Sten if he were feeling hostile, the qunari had nicely informed him that if he were indeed feeling hostile, Malcolm would be bleeding. As no one around that night’s fire seemed to be bloody, Malcolm could only assume that the qunari looked forward to the potential jaunt into the dwarven byways. Anders, however, looked about as enthusiastic as Líadan, which was to say, not happy about it in the least.

“Not a sodding trip to Orzammar without a sodding trip into the Deep Roads,” said Oghren. “I’d rather pay a visit to Tapsters, if I had a say.”

“It isn’t like we can’t do both,” said Malcolm. “Besides, we all knew we’d have to go into the Deep Roads anyway, what with having to return King Endrin to the Stone.” He frowned. “Even though I’m not quite sure how that works or how far we’ll have to go for that part.”

“Just to Aeducan thaig.” Hildur got a thoughtful expression on her face. “Haven’t been there in a while, either. That should be interesting.”

Oghren leaned forward, squinted at Hildur for a moment, and then slapped his thigh. “Well, shave my back and call me an elf!”

“We’d have to do far more than shave your back to make you an elf,” Líadan said in a near-grumble. “Probably stretch you out on a rack or something, for starters. You know, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.” She glanced over at Hildur. “Are there racks available in Orzammar, you think? The torture kind, not the kind that Oghren enjoys ogling.”

Oghren went on the offense, which led right to offensive. “You know, I figured you’d be a lot less cranky what with finally getting some—”

Líadan, of course, took offense. And her own offensive. “Dwarf, if you even—”

“Oh! It’s just like old times!” said Alistair, strolling over to the fire from where his guards had made their camp, and plopping himself on the ground next to Malcolm. “Líadan threatening to remove Oghren’s manhood while we’re all cozily gathered around the campfire. This is exactly the sort of thing I miss being king.”

Malcolm glanced sidelong at his brother. “Castration? You missed _castration_?”

“To be fair, no one’s manhood has been forcibly removed thus far,” said Alistair.

Líadan had yet to look away from her glare at Oghren. “I could rectify that right now with the dwarf, if you wish, your Majesty.”

Alistair’s eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. “You never call me ‘your Majesty.’ Ever. Well, now I really might have to consider the request with manners like that coming from you.”

“It’s a trick, pike-twirler, I’m telling you,” said Oghren.

The king glanced between the dwarf and the elf. “No, I don’t think it is. Her intent seems pretty clear to me. Honestly, I’m inclined to grant the request, really. I mean, the reduction in dirty jokes would be significant. I don’t think Anders could pick up your slack.” He shot an alarmed look over at the mage. “Not that I was issuing a challenge or anything. I was just making a statement on how prodigious Oghren’s innuendo-laden jokes seem to be. Without him around, the amount of time I blush per day could be drastically reduced.”

“I wouldn’t count on _that_.” Malcolm looked pointedly over at Hildur. “I think it’s more of a dwarf-thing than a specific Oghren-thing.”

Hildur raised an eyebrow. “Just what do you mean by that?”

“Sauce the nug?”

She smirked. “You know, that really was one of my better ones. Good to see it wasn’t entirely wasted on you.”

“Why do I get the feeling you aren’t talking about a special dwarven dish?” asked Líadan.

“Well, it _could_ be a special dwarven dish,” said Oghren. “I mean—”

“I don’t want to know.” Líadan let her right hand drop to hover just above the hilt of one of her daggers. Oghren took the hint and neglected to press on with his what promised to be spectacularly dirty diatribe. Then she sighed and asked, “Why are we shaving your back and calling you an elf, anyway?”

Oghren pointed a stubby finger at Hildur. “Aeducan. She’s Endrin’s sodding sister.”

“Ah, I thought I noticed a family resemblance,” said Riordan. Like he had been in demeanor for the past four days, his comment was unusually quiet. Malcolm had been meaning to ask him about it, if the older man’s quietness was due to Fiona’s death or from something else. Or maybe it was just the number of deaths and mishaps that’d occurred in the past few weeks, Malcolm thought, and so he didn’t ask. It wasn’t like he wanted to really talk about Fiona in the first place, not with everything so fresh. Sudden. 

He looked away from Riordan and into the fire, his thoughts tumbling over how they had simply run out of time before they even realized it was a race. Líadan shifted almost imperceptibly next to him, but enough so that her body touched his, telling him that she’d noticed the dark direction of this thoughts.

“Oh, more royalty, is it?” asked Anders, feigning boredom. “Such circles we Wardens travel in. Really, we should mention it more when we go recruiting.”

“So does this mean you could be up for Queen?” Líadan asked. “Not like we don’t already have a surplus of royal Grey Wardens. But, from what I recall, your nephew wasn’t exactly... what’s the word...”

Oghren frowned. “Something wasn’t right about the lad. Rumors were going around that he’s the one who created the entire situation that got Endrin’s oldest killed and his second-born exiled into the Deep Roads. But technically Hildur’s a surface dwarf now, like me and Sigrun here, so—”

“Technically, I’m _dead_ ,” said Sigrun.

Anders rolled his eyes. “Technically, you’re alive. It’s philosophically that you’re dead. Or symbolically. Or however it works. At any rate, in most cases, you’re very much alive. Just... not to the dwarves. And what’s this surface dwarf term you keep throwing about? Can dwarves not return to Orzammar after they leave?”

“Technically,” said Hildur.

“A lot of technicalities around here.” Anders glanced over at Oghren. “Why technically, though? Do you not know?”

Oghren’s frowned deepened, and then he went digging in his beard for his flask. “Well, it’s not like they send you a letter. ‘Congratulations! You’ve been ejected from the warrior caste!’”

Hildur looked closely at Oghren. “Do you care?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes. Then I drink more and it goes away.” With that, he took a slug from the flask Malcolm knew contained dwarven ale. The beard flask never had any surface ale in it. From what Oghren had just said, he could see why.

“Well, Grey Wardens are a bit different,” said Hildur. “We aren’t exactly surface dwarves, but we’re not exactly normal dwarves, either, if that makes any sense.”

“None at all,” said Alistair.

“It’s probably the same strange reasoning that somehow lets you be a Grey Warden and a king at the same time,” Malcolm said to his brother.

“Could do with less of that reasoning.”

“Well, the same reasoning doesn’t apply for dwarves when it comes to electing the monarch,” said Hildur. “So I won’t be standing for queen. From the last letter my brother sent me, the only opposition my nephew has is Lord Harrowmont. Of course, Endrin never came out and said any of his true suspicions or who he wanted to succeed him, so the election could be... rough.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Rough? What do you mean by ‘rough?’ Are we talking about people fighting and dying in the streets kind of rough? Or more of the saying mean things about the other person behind their back kind of rough?”

“Blood on the streets,” said Oghren. “It’s more civilized.”

“None of which we need to become involved with.” Riordan gave significant looks to the Wardens who’d gone through the Blight together, reminding them of how much meddling they’d had to do, especially within Fereldan politics. “The time for Grey Wardens to influence politics has passed, at least for the time being.”

Hildur nodded. “You’ll get no argument from me.” Then she got to her feet. “I’m off to sleep, Wardens. I’m taking advantage of the relative safety while I still can before we leap into the deep-stalker laden political nest that is my home city.” Heeding the dwarf’s warning, the rest of them drifted to their own tents not far after.

The dream ripped him from his sleep, a variant of the same theme from before—dragons, fear, anguish, a crow, and pleas for mercy and freedom. Other elements had joined, unwelcome additions from his waking hours. He would far prefer that if both the mother who raised him and the mother who gave birth to him were dead in reality, that they could at least be alive while he slept in his little portion of the Fade. Yet it seemed that providence paid no heed to that preference.

Malcolm slipped from his bedroll, unable—or unwilling—to get back to sleep. He pulled on boots and wrapped himself in his cloak. So unsettled was he that even grabbing his sheathed sword was an afterthought. Then he ducked out of his tent into the cold Fereldan night. Winter, said the near-frigid air, was nearly upon them. As soon as he was out of his tent and blinking in the warm light cast by the fire, he looked reflexively toward Líadan’s tent. The wish was immediate and strong—for someone to be there when he awakened, or to be the one there when she awakened from nightmares caused by the taint, or whatever else Thedas threw at them. But for this trip, they’d decided to be discreet out of propriety, even though they both feared they were running short on time.

It seemed a common-enough theme lately for it to apply even to them.

“You could have shared a tent, you know,” Riordan said quietly from near the fire. “No one would have objected. I can’t guarantee there wouldn’t have been catcalls, but... no one would protest. Wardens lead brutal, often suddenly-shortened lives. You might as well take what solace you can while it’s there.”

“I’ll mention it to her.” Malcolm moved and sat across from the Warden Commander. The man looked more haggard than he’d ever seen him, and that included both times they’d rescued him from prisons during the Blight. Riordan wasn’t on watch, either, since the royal guards with them had assumed that duty. Nightmares, then.

Riordan gave an amused chuckle. “She was already out here and complaining earlier. I suspect you’ll find no disagreement from her. Well, about that, anyway. You always seems to find other ways to land in arguments with her. It’s a peculiar talent of yours, I’ve noticed. Fiona saw it, as well. She once described it as ‘Dalish elf baiting’ and said that it was a very dangerous sport for you to engage in.”

The pain came back, sliding in between his ribs as a sudden, jolting reminder that Fiona was gone. He didn’t want to think about it, so he stuck with the other subject Riordan had brought up. Sure, it had its own danger, but he preferred it to facing other realities. “How long have you known?”

“From the moment I saw the two of you interacting during the Blight.”

“But we didn’t... we hadn’t... I mean, I never even...” Malcolm couldn’t even form the right words. Thinking of Líadan that way back then had never once crossed his mind. Sure, he’d never minded that she was easy on the eyes, or that there was something about the way she carried herself or how intelligent she could be, not to mention her fierce willfulness, but considering her in _that_ way hadn’t happened until after the Blight. Weisshaupt, maybe, was where he’d gotten the first inklings. Maybe. Perhaps that one day when he found her suddenly riding beside him on the road near Montfort.

Riordan’s chuckle grew a little louder. “Oh, I know, lad. Neither of you would have contemplated it for a second back then. She had her own issues to work through, and you... you had your witch. Or she had you, as it were.”

Malcolm frowned, and the old fear came slinking back. “That makes it—me—sound almost insignificant. Like it didn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, but it did mean something, make no mistake. For what it’s worth, what you had when I found the lot of you again in Orzammar was far more even a relationship than what you had when I left you all at Ostagar. But she had...” Riordan trailed off for a moment as he tried to find the right way to explain his thoughts. “Her life was always intended for a different direction, lad. While it didn’t last, and probably wouldn’t have had she stayed around, that doesn’t make it insignificant or less real or unworthy of remembering. I think she never planned on feeling for you what she had, and that threw her. However, it didn’t deter her from her true purpose in staying with the group of you during the Blight. While that determination may not define who she is, it will always define what she does.”

He hadn’t realized Riordan had done quite that much thinking about Morrigan. Then again, it made sense that he _had_ , given how everything had turned out. “Do you think whatever she has planned is evil, like the Chantry assumes?”

“You’re asking if I think she’s a maleficar.” Riordan’s tone held no judgement yet, only starkly stating for the sake of clarity what Malcolm was really asking.

Malcolm nodded.

Riordan’s brow furrowed as he leaned over his knees and mulled over the question. Quiet was allowed its reign as the older man pondered, marred only by the pops of the fire, soft snores from some of the tents, and the distant jingle of a sentry’s chainmail. The guard was far enough away that anything spoken between Malcolm and Riordan would remain between them and maybe the few tents around them, if the occupants had near-elven hearing. Then Riordan said, “No. No, I don’t believe she’s a maleficar. Not evil, either. Dangerous? Yes. Morrigan never struck me as one who would resort to the absolute evil that a maleficar truly is. Sometimes I think the Chantry uses the term far too lightly, given that maleficarum are the ones—if the Chant has any truth to it—who caused the existence of the Blights in the first place. But I don’t think that even for the sake of a great power would Morrigan resort to that sort of thing. Of anything, I think she would recognize the danger that lines that path and avoid it at all costs. I believe there’s something greater going on here that she knows a little more about than we do, given that we know practically nothing. I also think that we will never truly understand as she does, but that we must try.” He sighed and looked over at Malcolm. “To that end, I want you to go look for her.”

“I thought that—”

The Warden Commander held up a hand to stop the question. “Not just you. And not just you and Líadan and Gunnar, either. Not with your history of scrapes you’ve gotten into. No, I want you to take Sten and Anders, as well. Another warrior will help immensely, and it was Sten’s objective in the first place to find Morrigan. As for taking Anders... I’d rather not have a group of Wardens out scouring Thedas without the services a healer. Wynne has agreed to stay at the Vigil and help in Anders’ absence and with Fi—” He broke off and took a moment to collect himself. “And Hildur will also be stopping by Kinloch Hold to recruit some healers, if possible, on the way back to the Vigil.”

“Hildur? Why not you? Did you piss someone off at the Tower while I was at Weisshaupt?”

A rueful smile spread on Riordan’s lips. “No. They like me fine at the Tower. In fact, the last time I was there, I was told that my accent was charming.”

“So are you going to Denerim, then? That’s where we were planning on going next. Alistair needs help with a couple little things—well, not so little, I suppose—and then we were going to go south from there, depending on when and how hard the first real snows hit.”

His smile changed from wry to haunted. “No, I won’t be going to Denerim, lad.” Then his tired eyes moved back to the flames. “When a Warden as far into his Calling as I am goes into the Deep Roads, he does not return.”

“You mean you—” Malcolm stood up, fighting the tightening in his chest again, at the panic that yet another person would be leaving. They’d even had plenty of warning, practically from when they’d first met the man, but that didn’t mean he felt any more ready. You were never ready. “Then don’t go! Stay in the city! Or, for Andraste’s sake, stay on the sodding surface! There’s no need to... you don’t...” Malcolm’s protests fell silent when Riordan removed his gloves and thrust his bared arms out from under his cloak. In the scant light, his mottled skin was more corrupted grey than anything else. “How much? I mean, how much has it progressed?” Malcolm’s voice had fallen far from the volume of his protest to just above a whisper.

“Almost to my chest. It’s the same on my legs, and is reaching across my back as well. I’m surprised it hasn’t appeared on my face yet. Itches like a demon, too.”

Malcolm sat heavily on the log he’d just abandoned, and ignored Riordan’s attempt at levity. “I guess you have to, then.” A sudden, surprising flare of anger directed at Fiona went through him. “Not like you have a choice.” She’d had a choice, from what he’d been told. She could have waited. The taint would’ve taken weeks to reach the point of becoming a ghoul. They could have done something else to help her. Maybe they could have stopped it. Stopped her from dying. _Something_.

“Fiona had no more choice than I do now,” said Riordan. 

Malcolm realized his thoughts must be extra-readable on his face tonight. “No?”

Riordan met his gaze. “You know as well as I do what happens to those who are tainted and do not successfully undergo the Joining.”

“She could have waited. Weeks! I was told she had weeks before the taint reached a critical point. She... there... there wasn’t any need to rush things. To rush into a Joining.”

“Ah, but there was.”

Malcolm was on his feet and pacing in an attempt to will away the ridiculous anger he felt towards his dead natural mother. She was _dead_. How he could be angry with her for that? It didn’t seem right. And yet, there it was. “So she didn’t have weeks before the taint took her?”

“The taint wasn’t the problem. Well, it was, but not so much as the other. In comparison, becoming tainted was a mere inconvenience. Given that she’d already once lived through a Joining and a Calling, she didn’t see a reason why she wouldn’t survive another. It was merely a step for her, something to be dealt with before she went to wrestle with more difficult, more important things.”

Malcolm stopped and turned to peer at Riordan over the fire. “More difficult than the taint? What could make being tainted an inconvenience and not something, oh, I don’t know, more dire?”

 “You see, at the time, Fiona had a missing son to find.” Riordan’s tone was mild, but his words were wickedly pointed.

They pierced Malcolm with an icy blade of truth he hadn’t been willing to face. He closed his eyes and turned away from the light of the fire. When he opened them, he was looking out into the dark forest of the camp near the mouth of Gherlen’s Pass. The same camp, he knew, that they had used a few times during the Blight. The same camp where he’d run away from Duncan for the first time after his conscription. The same camp where Morrigan had asked him to kill her if the darkspawn were ever about to capture her. The same camp where he and Líadan had started to become friends instead of enemies. The same camp they’d left to start their forced march towards Honnleath and Leliana’s death. And for the first time in a long while, he wanted to run. From everything. Just plunge blindly into the forest and forget it all.

Except that he couldn’t. Leaving had already caused part of the mess he was in. Leaving with Astrid had led to Astrid’s demise, and then... in a way, Fiona’s death. If he hadn’t gone without a word left to anyone, she might not have pushed the Joining like she had. Maybe she’d been weak from the battles they’d had in the Deep Roads, maybe she hadn’t been entirely concentrating on the Joining potion and added too much or too little of one ingredient or another. If she had known where he was, if he had said something instead of just abruptly leaving, she could have waited. And he could’ve been there, done something, or at least talked to her. Let her know that he didn’t hold it against her for what she’d done. Maybe, even if for a brief amount of time, let her be his mother. A way to mend the giant hole Rendon Howe had ripped in him when he’d killed Eleanor Cousland. It wasn’t everyone who got a second chance at having a mother. And it wasn’t everyone who wasted it as well as he had. While nothing could be expressed in public, there’d always been private. Maker, he’d never even _hugged_ the woman. 

And he’d wanted to. That and to thank her, not condemn her, for what she’d done in giving him to the Couslands. She was still his mother, and he’d loved her, despite the fact that he’d never _told_ her. All of it had gone unsaid and undone and they’d simply run out of time because he’d _left_. Well, there wouldn’t be anymore of that _now_. Lesson learned. Yet even then, even as he scorned it, the darkness of the forest still beckoned with its illusive, false freedom.

“Half a year ago, you would have walked into that forest without a second thought.” The sudden intrusion of commander’s voice made Malcolm jump. Then Riordan said, “A few months ago, you’d have simmered for a couple moments, and then still strolled off into the forest. Perhaps you would have done the same even as little as a few days ago. And yet, here you remain, even after hearing something that had to sound very harsh.”

“I don’t think harsh begins to describe how it felt to hear that.” He still didn’t turn around. While he wouldn’t run, it would still take him some time to turn and face the darkness of reality. 

“I suspect not.” Riordan sounded slightly amused, if anything. Then the gravity returned to his voice. “You did what you had to. And so did she. It was unfortunate circumstance and a very good illustration of exactly how unfair life can really be. Because, obviously, we all needed that sort of illustration, being Grey Wardens.”

A quick, choked laugh rose out of Malcolm’s throat. “No, not really.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

That statement made Malcolm turn around to face Riordan. “What? Why would you—that’s not what it sounded like you believed from what you said a few minutes ago.”

The commander had put his gloves back on and huddled into his cloak when Malcolm had contemplated running while looking the other way. “I had to say something to help you understand why she didn’t wait. And, I suppose, show you that you did matter to her. A lot. Both you and Alistair.”

“I know that. I just...” _Never told her_ , Malcolm didn’t say out loud. He looked away again.

“She knew.”

“But I never said... I didn’t—I never _told_ her that she, that I...” And he still couldn’t say it.

“Let me ask you this: did you know how she felt about you and your brother?”

“She loved us.”

“Wouldn’t it be fair to assume that she knew you and Alistair felt the same?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” _Too easy_ , he thought. _It couldn’t be that simple_. _Could it?_

“It’s something for you to consider. She was proud of you boys, that much I know. You did end a Blight, after all. Not many mothers can claim that their sons have done the same.”

“But look at all the people who have... died. There are so many dead, including her. Not just...” _Not just the ones I killed myself_ , he thought as he saw the image of Astrid flailing helplessly in the stormy ocean before she drowned. 

“You saved a lot more lives than you ended,” said Riordan. “Both during the Blight and after. Hildur told me what happened on the Waking Sea.”

Malcolm’s legs felt weak, and so he found a seat on the log near the fire once more. “You mean Astrid. And... yeah. At least Fiona didn’t have to know about that.”

A half-smile appeared on Riordan’s mouth. “Oh, I imagine she would have reacted differently than you assume. Most likely, she would’ve been angry that she hadn’t gotten the chance to kill Astrid herself. She was... not so much a fan of that Anders woman.”

“I wasn’t, either, but that didn’t mean I wanted to... her to—”

“You did what needed to be done. You should know by now that doing what needs to be done is rarely pretty, and never easy. It’s another sacrifice in the long list of sacrifices you have made or will make for the Grey Wardens. A trade, so to speak. Part of your soul so that Ferelden will continue to benefit from having Grey Wardens to defend it.”

“But that isn’t the only reason I did it.” In fact, it was a smaller reason than he would like to admit, and he wasn’t so ready to accept absolution when it came from the sort of reasoning that Riordan had given. It didn’t feel right.

“I know. The other reasons, while not so closely related to the Grey Wardens, they are no less valid. The part of your soul that you left in the Waking Sea during that storm was a sacrifice made to protect the lives of many people. A sacrifice that any number of us would have given in your place. Honestly, I believe many of us older people would rather have done it, so as not to have you already making that kind of sacrifice when you’re so young. Becoming a Grey Warden, living through a Blight, leading armies as you and Alistair have done, it made you both grow up quickly. Every now and then, though, there’s still a glimpse of the youths you and your brother once were. It isn’t something any of us older folks want to see entirely disappear. Time ages us all, as does the taint in Wardens. There’s no need to hasten it even more, not when other things can be done.” Riordan laughed, more to himself than outwardly. “I think Fiona would gladly have done what you had to do in order to protect you. While she was very much the consummate Grey Warden, there’s something about a mother’s instincts that cannot be denied.”

“I told you,” came Alistair’s voice as he stumbled out of his tent, wrapped tightly in a thick, woolen cloak. “She thought about us every day. And when I say that, I mean that _every day_ she wanted to come back here to Ferelden and take us away with her.” With that, the king sat down on the same log as his brother.

Malcolm sighed. “It still remains that she wouldn’t have been tainted if she’d been there on the ship.”

“It would have happened eventually and with just as little warning,” said Riordan. “Even I had assumed that she would live through the Joining. The ritual was just a matter of rote, up until the point when it wasn’t.” He shrugged. “There’s nothing we can do now but continue to press forward. We haven’t got much choice in the matter. It’s just the way life works when you haven’t yet died.”

“But you aren’t pressing forward for much longer.” Malcolm’s eyes went wide when he realized what he’d said. “I mean, that isn’t what I meant, exactly. I’m not saying that taking your Calling is the _easy_ way out, I just mean—”

“You’re staying in the Deep Roads, then,” said Alistair, cutting off his brother’s babbling. The king didn’t sound surprised in the least about Riordan taking his Calling, as if he’d been waiting for it. Prepared for it, like the rest of them should have been. 

“Yes. This far along... leaving to return perhaps a month later at most would be a certain kind of torture. It is better this way. We have more options available to the Wardens now than we had even two weeks ago.” Riordan looked from Alistair to Malcolm. “And don’t worry, lad. I understood what you meant. But while I have only a short time to live, you have much to live for. With things as they are, you’ll have your freedom, at least as much as you can and still remain an active Warden.”

Malcolm shot a questioning glance at Alistair to see if he knew, but Alistair only offered a shrug in return, and so he turned to Riordan. “What do you mean?”

“As I said earlier, I’m sending you out with a party to search for Morrigan. You’re far more useful doing that than cooling your heels here in Ferelden and waiting for something to happen. And we all know that there’s only so long you’d wait here before you up and left to go look, no matter how much you’ve matured. But with Hildur being here in Ferelden and the amount of recruits we have, I believe it will be best if we let her take temporary command until we train someone else to become Warden Commander when she returns to Weisshaupt. With you being only twenty and a Theirin, it’s probably for the best that we have someone else assume the command once I am gone. Both because of your youth, and that it would seem to others that your family held too much power, otherwise.”

“Thank the _Maker_.” Some of the tension left Malcolm’s limbs at the surge of absolute relief that flowed through him with Riordan’s news. “Who do you have in mind?”

“Nathaniel, preferably. If the Landsmeet will allow it and you can’t think of any other objections. He has the age and maturity, and he’s the skills he learned growing up in the arling and squiring in the Free Marches.”

“I think he’s perfect for it. Of course, he’ll hate it, which makes it all the better. But it’s a chance, and a deserved one, for him to restore his family’s honor.” Malcolm glanced over at Alistair. “And I think we can sway the Landsmeet to accept it.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “How do you think that?”

“We release the banns and freeholders sworn to the Arling of Amaranthine to swear to whomever they like, as it should be. Most of them will move to Fergus. The dissenters, the ones who sided with Rendon Howe and are probably still trying to decide how they’ll assassinate Riordan because they’ve no idea that he’ll do it _for_ them, there’s no telling what they might do. They could swear allegiance to Fergus because it’s just the easiest thing to do, or they could pledge themselves to Anora, though that wouldn’t matter much anyway. Or they could swear directly to the Crown. Not sure. But, that would keep a lot of nobles from being cranky about having to swear allegiance to a Grey Warden as the arl.” Malcolm sighed. “Howe never should have had banns sworn to him in the first place. Vigil’s Keep is the seat of the arling because it’s an incredibly strategic fortress. It’s there to watch for Tevinter fleets. Or Orlesian fleets. Or, basically, enemy fleets of any kind. And now, darkspawn, I suppose. But you get my point. The Landsmeet shouldn’t have a problem with the Grey Wardens holding a strategic fort and not the allegiance of any banns or freeholders.”

“That... could work,” said Alistair. “How long as that been rattling around in your head?”

“Not sure. Weeks? Not months. Well, maybe two months? Oh, I think I thought of it during the Oaths of Allegiance ceremony.”

“And you just thought to bring this up now?”

“It hadn’t really come up before. I mean, there were sodding _darkspawn_ , and oh, wait, a _high dragon_ , and then—”

“Okay. Point taken. Should I have written all that down, or will you remember?”

“You mean about the darkspawn and the high dragon? I think they do a good job of reminding me themselves. Keep sodding popping up out of nowhere. You wouldn’t think a high dragon would have that kind of stealth.”

Alistair narrowed his eyes. “I meant the—oh, nevermind. If you’ve remembered that idea for this long, you’ll remember it for the Landsmeet. Because I’m making you go and present it, just for that comment.”

“You’d have made me go either way. Don’t lie. I know you would have.”

Riordan cleared his throat. “I’m off to try and sleep again. I’ll leave you two to your bickering, as always.” Then the older Warden cleared off to his tent with the two brothers watching with identical expressions of puzzlement on their faces.

“I have something for you,” Alistair said to Malcolm as soon as Riordan was gone. Then he frowned. “Except that it’s my tent. Hold on.” The king hopped to his feet, and then disappeared into his tent for a moment, swearing a couple times as the sounds of him rustling around for something carried to the fire. Eventually he emerged from the tent with a leather-bound book in his hand. He walked over and handed it to Malcolm. “Found this in Fiona’s pack. It had gotten wedged in a corner, so that’s why we didn’t see it when we emptied it.”

Malcolm recognized it instantly. It was the journal Fiona always had open whenever he’d watched her try to figure out Morrigan’s ring. “Why are you giving it to me?”

Alistair shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, you let me keep the letters, so I figured you should have... something.”

“I guess.” Though it was a smallish journal, Malcolm couldn’t figure out why it felt so heavy in his hands. 

“Riordan’s right, you know.”

Malcolm glanced up at his brother. “About?”

“Everything. With Fi—” He stopped suddenly, exhaling a harsh breath. “He just is.” Alistair looked away, and down into the flames. After another silence passed between them, he told his brother he was going back to sleep, and disappeared into his tent again. 

Even with those words, the journal felt no less heavy.

 


	59. Chapter 59

**Chapter 59**

“As the sapling bends, so must you.

In yielding, find resilience;

In pliancy, find strength.

That is my Way.”

—from _The Charge of Andruil, Goddess of the Hunt_

**Líadan**

“You know,” came Malcolm’s voice from behind Líadan as she pored over a few of the books from the large stack of tomes she’d gotten from the Shaper, “I can’t get over how freakishly high these shelves are here in the Shaperate. They’re tall even for me. Or Sten! Do freakishly tall dwarves work here? Or are—oh, wait, no, I see there are also some freakishly tall ladders. Aw, too bad. I was kind of excited about seeing freakishly tall dwarves.”

Malcolm had lasted for about thirty minutes in keeping a patient, still silence before he’d broken and started wandering. And asking questions. Endless, babbling, inane questions. Líadan forced down her exasperation—again—and turned the page of the bound record.

“They must own an impressive array of ladders,” said Sten. “I do not understand. Why would such a small people build things so tall?”

Líadan struggled to remember exactly why she’d brought these people with her. Since when did Sten banter like this? Since when did the qunari _talk_ this much? She should have left them all in the Grey Warden compound or at the royal palace. But Hildur, Riordan, and Alistair were all meeting with Prince—soon to be King—Bhelen and had decided that having the other Wardens around could lead to more ‘diplomatic incidents,’ whatever those were. At least Oghren had bumbled off to Tapsters, though she’d have to pick him up later. Or roll him out, depending on his condition. He never did well returning to Orzammar. Malcolm was supposed to be _helping_ her, but even a day spent in the underground city had left him feeling cooped up, and his restlessness burned right through his meager attention span in record time. 

“They’re compensating,” said Sigrun. “Same reason for the freakishly elaborate beards.” There was a pause, and Líadan was almost tempted to look up. But she kept her attention on where it was supposed to be, unlike the others. Sigrun, however, kept going. “I’ve noticed that humans don’t have the same propensity towards ostentatious beards. You’re practically clean-shaven, Malcolm. Does that mean you’re the opposite?”

There was a sudden, distinctly uncomfortable cough from Malcolm. “How about... how about we get back to the freakishly high shelves? Or you know what? Sten doesn’t have a beard, either. Why not ask him?”

Sten’s expression remained impassive aside from a quirked eyebrow. “You wish to know the size of my—”

“No! Andraste’s ass, no! I just—fine. I’m going back to work. You two can just do whatever. Thank the Maker Anders was sent to keep an eye on Oghren and isn’t _here_.”

The air around Líadan moved as Malcolm took his seat near her and resumed his study of the pile of documents he’d taken earlier. After a moment, she glanced over at Sigrun and mouthed a ‘thank you’ for having gotten the human back on task that deftly. The dwarf smiled in return, and then lifted an eyebrow, indicating that she did want to know the answer to the question she’d posed to Malcolm. Líadan held in a sigh and slid a glance over at Malcolm. He practically had his nose to the parchment in his determination not to look at any of them, and his ears had turned a delightful shade of red. She quietly drummed her fingers for a moment before turning and motioned with her hands to the awaiting Sigrun. The other woman had helped get things back on track, she might as well share a little gossip. Sigrun then practically _beamed_ , and gave her a respectful nod before trailing an admiring look at Malcolm. Líadan narrowed her eyes to make the threat, and _territory_ , very clear. Not that she was really worried about Sigrun doing anything like that, but it was fun to joke around with a female friend. Sigrun caught on and winked as she swallowed a giggle. Neither of the males with them noticed.

There were far too many men in the Wardens, at times. And with the recent deaths of Velanna and Fiona, their numbers had been drastically reduced. Líadan keenly felt Fiona’s absence, as it had left a hole far larger than the one Velanna had left. With Velanna, it had been the death of a comrade, a fellow mage, a fellow Warden, and partly, a fellow Dalish. But with Fiona, there had been something more. She’d looked up to her, in a way, even though Fiona had been a city elf and not Dalish. After their talk that night around the horses, Líadan had almost felt a connection with her of a kind she’d not experienced since before she lost her mother to the templars. Of course that meant that Fiona had died soon after, taken by the Creators-damned Joining and the darkspawn taint. She also knew that what she’d lost paled in comparison to what Malcolm and especially Alistair had lost. Neither of them showed it much—while Eamon had been a complete bastard in how he’d pointed it out, he’d been right about how _much_ grief the brothers could show in public—but when they thought no one was looking, they each often took on a slightly lost expression. She’d yet to see either of them cry, and she’d plenty of opportunity with Malcolm to see if he’d done so. Not that she could talk, really, as she hadn’t even cried over her own parents deaths from years ago. It just took... to much energy. Or something.

“Huh,” said Malcolm, jolting Líadan from her musing.

“What?”

“Apparently, at least from these records that were pulled from the fortress, Kal’Hirol _attacked_ Cad’halash—or Cadash, they keep spelling it both ways—thaig for harboring elven refugees from Tevinters.”

Líadan frowned. “Why would they do that? They just had refugees, not fugitive slaves. Not that they should attack them over that, either, but still.”

“Profit,” said Sigrun. “Trade contracts with Tevinter about lyrium. Really, sometimes everything comes down to lyrium trade.”

“So Cadash thaig probably never even saw the darkspawn if Kal’Hirol’s attack was successful.” Malcolm passed the parchment over to Líadan. “It’s from one of the translated records. Fereldan is apparently based on the Common trade language that the dwarves used. Anyway, it’s readable. Better than skimming all the ancient dwarven for words that might look Elvish.”

Sigrun sighed. “Lucky them. Means they never saw what happened in the end.”

“Not the end quite yet.” He frowned at his words. “What was that about? You being morose and me being optimistic? Can we trade roles back, please? This one is awkward and uncomfortable and I’m really not good at the perky thing.”

“We can swap if you answer my question from before.”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “Perky it is.”

The dwarf laughed then sat down across from Líadan and grabbed one of the books still written in Dwarven instead of what they called Common. Sigrun had joined the Legion of the Dead not knowing how to read Dwarven at all, and able to read only a smattering of Common. Someone in the Legion had taught her to read both, citing it necessary for their forays and exploration into the Deep Roads. Líadan had been astonished that Sigrun had gone so long without knowing how to read, since all Dalish were taught to read and write because it aided in maintaining their long and too easily lost history. She remembered her own lessons with various elders—Keeper Marethari and Hahren Paivel in particular—vividly, and how much she’d squirmed through each of them, much more eager to be out with the hunter apprentices instead of stuck learning in a controlled environment. It wasn’t until later, and to be truthful, not fully until she’d left her clan, that she appreciated what she’d learned. Holding in a sigh, Líadan went back to the book in front of her. It was a translation of a journal from, if she’d read it correctly, several hundred years ago, or something around that number, and brought over from Kal’Sharok before the Deep Roads to the other dwarven city were sealed against the darkspawn. 

Her eyes caught on _Arlathan_ in an entry and she had to resist jumping from her seat when she read it in its entirety: _“The excavations are going well. I think Shaper Warrek secretly hopes that the artifacts will lead him to the lost city of Arlathan, despite Tevinter records that insist on its complete obliteration. Even if he found the site of the city, there would be little remaining of any worth. As for the artifacts, they must have come to this area by trade. Cadash thaig is old, built upon an ancient settlement called Cad’halash. Lots of junk can accumulate over much time, even elven junk._ ”

“We need to go to this thaig,” she said. “Cadash or Cad’halash or whatever, even if it’s abandoned or destroyed. There has to be something there that can reveal exactly what happened.”

Malcolm looked up from his own reading to give her a curious look. “What makes you say that?”

She wordlessly handed him the book and pointed out the journal entry.

“Ah, I see. You don’t think it could just be stuff gotten from trade?”

“Maybe.” She winced at having to admit the possibility. “But we should be able to tell if we can see the architecture. There might be other artifacts around. Maybe the elves even left something sealed magically that the dwarves couldn’t open. I don’t know. But we can’t not investigate the possibility that Cadash helped the elves who escaped the destruction of Arlathan.”

He passed the book back to her. “If it was even destroyed in the first place. Maybe that Shaper was right and it’s just buried somewhere.”

“It would be filled with darkspawn by now if it was.”

Malcolm shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Not if it was somehow cut off from everything else before the darkspawn arrived. Remember, they came _after_ Tevinter destroyed the elven civilization. And weren’t the ancient elves fairly magical? I mean, wasn’t being a mage the norm and not the exception, unlike with humans? Well, and elves, now?”

Líadan sat back in her chair. “There are stories. But, that’s what they are. Stories. Legends. Myths. Unless something is written in one of the few books we have left, we just don’t know. And even those books are suspect sometimes. I guess we can do what we can here to verify everything we saw. That, and get maps to Cadash thaig, if they’re available. If not, we’ll have to find some of the Legion of the Dead who have returned from Kal’Hirol.” She got up without saying more and strode over to Shaper Czibor, who was apparently in charge of the Shaperate. He would know if this Shaper Assistant Shalla and Shaper Warrek had been real. That sort of information was recorded in the Memories, and she and the others couldn’t read them. They couldn’t even _handle_ them, since they were inscribed in lyrium using some special method only Shapers knew. They’d come out of any reading attempts of the Memories very lyrium-addled. A quick conference with Czibor revealed that both the Shaper and Shaper Assistant they’d read about were indeed real, and had been associated with Kal-Sharok. 

“As for finding Cadash thaig, you’ll have to try your luck with the Legion. Lucky for you, messengers were sent ahead and there’s a contingent arriving tomorrow. Even the dead are insisting on being present for King Endrin’s return to the Stone,” said Czibor.

“Why does that sound creepy?” Sigrun asked Malcolm. “We’re dead, but not the _undead_.”

“I don’t know. You keep belaboring the point that you’re dead. And, you can walk. The definition for the walking dead are the undead, I think. We dealt with some during the Blight. A lot of them. You should be happy to know that you aren’t nearly as smelly as they are. I mean, seriously, the undead smell far worse than the darkspawn.”

“Are you saying that I smell bad? That I only smell good in comparison to the undead and darkspawn?”

“No! That’s not what I meant and you know it. You’re as bad as Líadan, you are. And Wynne. It’s a conspiracy, I think. And you’re all in on it. I’m on to you now.”

Líadan turned from Czibor to give Sigrun a questioning look. The dwarf shot her a grin in return, which Malcolm claimed was further evidence of a female conspiracy. A short silence followed, with the Shaper looking from Warden to Warden.

“Would a freakishly tall dwarf not be a stout human with an overly grown and coiffed beard?” asked Sten, breaking the silence.

Malcolm snapped shut the book in front of him and, after a warning glance from Czibor, gently placed it on the stack of other old, apparently very delicate books. “You were seriously thinking about that this entire time?”

“I also wondered where they keep their supply of ladders. That was my next question.”

“We have a closet in the back,” said Czibor.

Líadan whirled around to the Shaper to fix him with a questioning look, annoyed that this male dwarf would so eagerly jump into the ridiculous conjecture of Sten and Malcolm’s. Then curiosity got the better of her. “Really?”

He shrugged. “How else would we get the books? Fly? Have you seen any flying dwarves around?”

“Not unless they have been thrown,” said Sten.

Malcolm looked from the qunari over to Czibor, a smile already spreading on his lips. “Is this closet... overly tall?”

“Creators, you’re worse than small children. Yes, even you, Sten.” Líadan crossed her arms, sighed, and fixed a glare on Malcolm. “Don’t you have a feast to get ready for, since you’re obviously done researching?” 

“I suppose. And, technically, we _all_ have a feast to get ready for since Riordan said we all have to go, not just me.” Malcolm stood and started for the door. “And we have to retrieve Oghren and Anders.” He pulled a face at that realization.

“You go on ahead. I need to get maps, and it could take a while for you to get Oghren out of Tapsters. Could require throwing. You might want to bring Sten.”

“Are you discussing the place where they commit mass suicide?” asked Sten.

“In a fashion.” Malcolm clapped Sten on the upper arm. “Come on. If Oghren’s really deep in his cups, you might get to do some dwarf tossing after all.” Then he glanced at Sigrun.

“I’m waiting for Líadan,” she said in answer to his unasked question.

Malcolm’s look shifted to Líadan. 

“Outside Tapsters. Promise,” she said. He studied her for a moment, and then nodded once and left with Sten. “So why didn’t you go with them?” Líadan asked Sigrun once the men had gone. She knew that Malcolm’s reluctance to part company came from his still-lingering fear that she would disappear if she was out of his sight. Not that he got unreasonable about it, but it led to a lot of moments of him wordlessly asking if she would be around when he returned, or if she really would meet him when she said she would.

“We’re going to the Commons. Not that I don’t think you can handle yourself, but being that close to Dust Town, it’s better if you aren’t alone. Plus, I’m really good at catching pickpockets if someone gets a case of sticky fingers.”

“One time when we were here, a dwarf pickpocketed Zevran in the Commons. Apparently the guy’s friend dared him to lift the dagger of a Grey Warden. Not really the smartest thing to do, in my opinion. Zevran caught him, of course.” She glanced over toward Czibor, but he’d already bustled off to grab the maps. “He gave him a good scolding, but he let him go in the end. Told him to get new friends.”

“Good advice.”

“You’d have liked Zevran, I think. Assassin and an ex-Crow, but a heart of gold, really.” Though perhaps a little short-sighted when it’d come to the end of the Blight and Morrigan’s deal. But she understood now, at least a little. He’d wanted to protect his friends and the people he’d come to see as his family. She honestly wasn’t sure if she wouldn’t have chosen the same, given the choice. Well, and the ability, so to speak. To be able to save the people she loved? To make sure they didn’t die? The idea of the Old God being reborn often seemed too vague a concept to be seen as truly dangerous when compared to loved ones dying. Morrigan’s deeds had become less a betrayal as the months had gone on, and more of a... she wasn’t sure what. Misunderstanding didn’t seem to cover it, not really. But that was certainly part of it. She, and everyone else, couldn’t comprehend Morrigan’s plan, mostly because Morrigan hadn’t seen fit to thoroughly—if at all— _explain_ the entire thing. Perhaps not a betrayal, but what it really was remained to be seen.

And she really wanted to see her friend again. To see if she was all right, because none of this had to be easy on her. Anger had clouded Líadan’s thoughts for a long time after they’d all found out part of what Morrigan had done, but the anger had dissipated. It left her with curiosity and worry, regret and urgency. She and Malcolm needed to find Morrigan before anyone else did, and their chances weren’t much better than the others’ chances. They had a shot, though, and she intended they make the most of it. They owed it to Morrigan, in a way, and she would see the debt through.

Czibor appeared at her side and handed her a leather case with more Deep Roads maps. “Remember, the Legion of the Dead will have the most recent maps and intelligence. They’ll be going back to Kal’Hirol after Endrin’s return to the Stone as well, so you might want to consider going with them since Cadash thaig is on the way.”

“That means at least a week in the Deep Roads.” Líadan scowled as she headed for the door, Sigrun walking next to her. “Sodding Deep Roads and their sodding endless darkness and taint,” she said to herself in almost a mutter.

“You’re not much on the holding back on how you really feel thing, are you?” asked Sigrun. “Well, for most things. There was that whole thing with Malcolm where, for the longest time, you both wouldn’t say what was completely obvious to everyone else. At least that got sorted, even though it took forever. I can’t believe Alistair won the bet. Of all the people, it was _him_. I think either he cheated or it was luck.”

“Luck. I didn’t see... _that_... happening when it did, and I was directly involved in it. So there was no way he could’ve cheated his way to winning. And I’d act shocked that you all had a pool going, but I’m not surprised.”

“Didn’t Oghren even offer you a chance to bet?”

“He did.” Líadan pushed through the doors separating the Diamond Quarter from Orzammar Commons.

“Now that would be cheating, I think, since you could’ve rigged the outcome.”

A crooked smile found its way to Líadan’s lips. “Don’t be so sure about that. Sometimes, I think we had the least amount of say of when, or even if, anything was going to happen.” Part of her had even agreed with Alistair’s shocked rant when he’d found out about it afterward. That sort of thing, outside, during a storm? Dalish elf or not, she certainly wouldn’t have thought behavior like that had been anything short of reckless. _Wonderfully_ reckless, but reckless nonetheless. 

“When you smile like that, it makes me consider human men,” said Sigrun.

“Without Malcolm around to embarrass, I’m not so sure I want to discuss that topic in any way whatsoever.”Abandoning their conversation, the two of them shouldered through a crowd that had gathered outside Tapsters. In the middle of the crowd, they found an unconscious Oghren, a nervous-looking Anders, a glowering Sten, and Malcolm. Líadan could tell from the set of Malcolm’s jaw that he was desperately trying not to laugh out loud. 

Anders’ eyes lit up when he saw Líadan and addressed her as soon as she got close. “I’m not sure how to tell you this,” he started saying, his hands rubbing absently at his chin.

“I really hate conversations that start like that,” said Líadan. “Is this where you tell me that you have a strange, unrequited love for Oghren’s beard?”

Malcolm frowned. “Wait, are we talking about actual beards or what Sigrun was talking about earlier?”

At the same time, Anders said, “No, it has nothing to do with Og—wait, what do you mean? Just what are you referring to?”

“Sodding Ancestors, it was a _joke_ , people,” said Sigrun. Then she nudged at Oghren with a booted foot. “Come on, Pride of Orzammar, there’s more ale waiting at Bhelen’s feast.” Her eyes flicked over to Tapsters’ door. “Better ale, even.”

Líadan stepped over to Malcolm as Sigrun kept at trying to rouse Oghren. “What happened?”

He kept his eyes trained on Sigrun as she tried to wake the other dwarf for a moment before he looked at Líadan. “Oghren happened. I think. He was passed out when we got here, Anders couldn’t say why, and then Sten got frustrated with all the noise and the lack of answers and carried Oghren out. Then, once he got to the door, he tossed him. Actually tossed him about ten feet. I think he could’ve tossed him further, but I guess he didn’t feel like doing any possibly permanent damage. Hard to say. Wish you could’ve seen it, but, you know, you had to get your maps.”

She rolled her eyes. “What, you _want_ to get lost in the Deep Roads?”

Malcolm’s look shifted to Oghren for a scant second before he turned back to Líadan with an especially mischievous look. “I’d like to get lost in _your_ Deep Roads.”

“Oh, Creators take you!” She punched him in the arm, and then spun away before he could see that she was trying not to laugh. The comment was stupid and very Oghren-influenced, but amusing. A little. Just a little. It wasn’t like she could fault him—much—on taking a perfectly good opening like she’d given. Truth be told, she’d have been disappointed if he hadn’t. Or at least a bit worried that he was becoming broody. She’d had enough of the broody to last a lifetime, and yet she knew there was still some brooding left in him that would eventually have to be dealt with. All in good time, though. “Sigrun, tell Oghren that we’ll shave off his beard if he doesn’t get up this instant.”

Oghren was on his feet in an almost immediately, though he did list to the side as he tried to stand straight. Anders sighed and cast a quick spell, setting Oghren to rights within seconds. “You’re not bad, mage!” The dwarf grinned at Anders. “Not bad at all. I don’t care what the elf says about you, you’re all right.”

Líadan decided she hated them all in that moment, except for Sigrun. And if Riordan thought they were going to go on this hunt for Morrigan with only her and a group comprised of all men—even the _dog_ was male—he had another thing coming. Well, she’d try asking nicely first, since apparently that’s what adults and rational people did, but if that didn’t work, she’d insist. Strongly insist. Some might call it a demand, but whatever. It was needed. There was no telling how long the search and the subsequent journey would last, and as much as she could be ‘one of the boys,’ she had no wish to spend months that vastly outnumbered. Even if Sigrun asked awkward questions and acted all innocent when she set people up as good as Zevran once did, Líadan wanted her friend to come with them, if she agreed to it. Out loud, she said, “We’re late. Come on.” She strode back toward the Diamond Quarter entrance, intending on leaving the others to trail behind her, but Malcolm caught up quickly.

“You’ve never seemed so eager to go to a feast,” he said.

“Maybe I was just trying to get away from you lot and your horrible jokes.”

“If that’s the case, I think you miscalculated, because we’re going to be _at_ said feast. Just saying.”

“Really? I had no idea.”

“You know, you’re the one who sounded like Oghren first, need I remind you.”

Líadan spun around and poked him once in the chest before moving closer for privacy and to glare up at him. “And, need I remind _you_ that you weren’t to pass the subject of that conversation along to anyone else. Ever.” She stepped in even closer and made a small motion with her hand toward the others. “They could hear us and it would be effectively passed along and I would never hear the end of it from them.”

“They’re far enough behind where they wouldn’t hear anything unless they were elves. Which they aren’t, so unless you bring it up again in a couple of minutes, I think it’s safe. Besides, do you really think I want them to know that you think my _brother_ is hot?”

“Only when he gets riled up, that’s—” She cut herself off with a frustrated sound, pressed her forehead onto the cool chainmail on his chest, and closed her eyes. “Nevermind. Let’s just pretend that I never said anything like that. I’m not attracted to your brother, truly. He’s like the big, dumb brother I never had. Usually. Just not as much when he gets... self-righteous. Or something. Right. Not attracted to Alistair. At all.”

“At all? Are you sure?” Malcolm’s chest rumbled with laughter he barely suppressed. “He and I have the same nose, you know. Theirin nose, the old women say. Similar facial structure, too. Cailan was the same way, but he was way more blond and shiny than either Alistair or I are. Our hair tends toward more red, which I’m told is from our grandmother—”

“Shut up, will you? I get it. You can stop making fun of me now.”

“Me? Make fun of you? Would I dare do such a thing?”

She opened her eyes to glare at him again. “Yes. You do it all the time. I’m starting to wonder why I share a bed with you.” Before he could make another wisecrack, she placed her index finger over his lips. “One more smart remark and one of us will be finding their very own especially lonesome room tonight, and maybe other nights.” Then she removed her finger, daring him to speak.

Malcolm opened his mouth, and then shut it and glowered at her. Then he took her dare. “It would be easier for me not to breathe. I’m serious. Not making any comments just might kill me. I couldn’t even stay quiet at the Landsmeet. And there’s this feast and do you realize how many openings people leave all the time? I’ve no idea how you expect me to keep quiet.”

Líadan grinned. “I have faith in you.” Then she resumed her walk to the Diamond Quarter.

“That’s fifty silvers to me,” said Oghren from behind her. “Pay up.”

Sigrun sighed. “Nug-snugglers! I thought for sure she was going to kiss him.”

“You place bets on their social interaction? Am I correct in this assumption?” asked Sten.

“More than we should,” said Anders. “And the king made a _killing_ on the last big pool, that bastard. I still say it was rigged, him being Malcolm’s brother and all.”

Líadan did her best to ignore their chatter, though at the feast it didn’t seem to get any better. It reminded her a lot of their first trip to Orzammar and the feast Endrin had given in their honor. Well, the Wardens and the whole thing about Malcolm and Alistair being princes, with King Endrin and Orzammar being the first to truly recognize them as such, at least internationally. As his late father had, Bhelen even managed to embarrass the brothers with gifts of armor. Except the soon-to-be king attempted to outdo his father, and the armor was made of dragonbone, though Malcolm’s remained dusky, while Alistair’s had many shining silverite and golden inlays. That garnered him teasing from his brother and fellow Wardens, though the armor was certainly finely made. It had also not passed Bhelen’s notice that Malcolm was shieldless, though he’d always been a sword and shield warrior. So Bhelen gave him a new shield, one with the marshaled arms of the Grey Wardens and the line of Calenhad. 

Alistair gave the shield and its heraldry his rousing approval. “I’m kind of jealous, really. Why can’t my arms say that I’m a Grey Warden, too?”

Malcolm carefully removed the shield from his brother’s hands. “Because you’re the king, that’s why. You’ve got a crown on your arms and everything to prove it. Meanwhile, I get a griffon. I guess it isn’t all that good being king, since it means you don’t get a griffon. You do get two mabaris, though, so don’t knock it or Gunnar will bite your hand off.”

Taking his cue, the mabari at Malcolm’s side barked for effect.

The king sighed. “Fine. I guess I’ll settle for that.” He glared down at the dog. “Even though you mabaris can’t fly like griffons can.” Gunnar growled and Alistair laughed. “One time, I might’ve been scared of that. Not anymore. I think I’ll only be scared of you again if I’m a darkspawn or something.” The dog bared his teeth this time, and Alistair backed off. “Okay, okay, I take it back. You’re a horrifically frightening wardog, even to me. Maker’s breath, you’re touchy.”

After Bhelen gave Alistair an odd look, he and his servants bustled off to attend to the other guests. Riordan watched him for a moment, and then asked, “What did you find at the Shaperate today?”

“We found out that the they own a sizable assortment of overly large ladders,” said Malcolm.

“We also nearly found out about the size of—” Sigrun started to say.

Riordan held up hand. “Just stop right there. I have no wish to hear wherever that statement was going to lead.” He gave a final admonishing glare to Sigrun before turning to Líadan. “I meant about Cadash thaig. Did you find evidence enough to warrant a visit?”

She nodded. “Yes.” Then she relayed to the Warden Commander what they’d discovered that day at the Shaperate, though she left out the details of Sigrun’s teasing. “Hopefully we’ll find more evidence of what elves were doing in a dwarven thaig,” she finished saying. “And that the darkspawn are still low in number due to the Blight and the Thaw and everything. That way, we can pay more attention to searching instead of combat. As fun as it is to kill darkspawn, sometimes it’s nice to just be able to look around without having to worry about being stabbed.”

“I agree.” Riordan rubbed at his chin for a moment, and then nodded, but it seemed more to himself than the others present. “Perhaps we can figure out a way to draw the darkspawn in the opposite direction, if there are any present. Yes.” He nodded to the others this time. “If you would excuse me.”

Líadan watched him as he strode away and toward the Legion of the Dead representative in the room. What was that about? Maybe he was going to have the Legion help with drawing the darkspawn away. It seemed like a good idea to her. It would let them travel faster and get out of the Deep Roads quicker, especially if they effectively had to travel from Orzammar to Vigil’s Keep using the Deep Roads instead of on the surface in order to reach Cadash thaig. It made no sense, judging from the maps and Legion intelligence, to backtrack to Orzammar if they reached Cadash, not when the Vigil’s exit would be closer at that point. It bothered her, though, to consider journeying across Ferelden via the Deep Roads. Something about it just set her on edge. Something felt _wrong_.

She suppressed a shudder.

Malcolm leaned over and quietly said, “I hesitate to wonder just where Bhelen got dragonbone for the armor. It isn’t exactly the easiest thing to procure. From what I’ve heard, it requires killing dragons. Last I checked, we were the last ones to do something like that and I don’t remember stopping to harvest any of the bone or scales.”

“Wade would tell you that it’s a terrible waste on our part that we haven’t,” she replied, remembering Wade’s dismay when he’d found out they’d left the high dragon’s tail back in Drake’s Fall instead of trying to bring parts of it with them. “He was rather put out that we didn’t bring back any of the dragon’s tail for him.”

“We were preoccupied! I mean, there were templars waiting back at Highever and you were... you weren’t quite all the way better.”

“Wade’s an artist. He doesn’t care about banal things like templars or head injuries, unless you’re wearing one if his helmets at the time.”

“Are you going to go on about how magic is an art? Because that would make you the Wade in our relationship and _me_ Herren. And I’m not sure how I feel about that. Herren’s kind of... what’s the word...”

“Mouthy? Why? Are you going to say that should be me?”

“Not if I wanted to keep—you know what, I’m just going to shut up now.”

“That’s the first smart thing I’ve heard you say all day, my young friend,” came Hildur’s voice as she stepped over to them. “I’m constantly amazed by the holes you verbally dig yourself into, and then _somehow_ , you still usually manage to crawl out with your manhood mostly intact.”

Malcolm smiled. “Charm.”

Líadan snorted. “More like you babble enough words that eventually they kind of start making sense and get you out of jams. Zevran had charm. Leliana had charm. Anders has charm. You have... I’m not sure what you have.” She heaved a resigned sigh. “It works, though, even when I don’t want it to. You’re ridiculously hard to stay mad at, even when you deserve it.”

He grinned even wider, slung an easy arm around her shoulders, and pulled her close for a moment. “That’s good. Because, otherwise, I think you’d have strangled me by now.”

She stiffened for a second at the public display of affection, something neither of them were big on, especially with the problems their relationship tended to bring from the public. Though this was Orzammar, not Ferelden, and judging from the blush on his cheeks, he’d had more ale than she’d previously thought. Not enough to be drunk, but she was fairly certain now that he had a good buzz going on. She relaxed and wondered if she had time to catch up. 

“I have it on good authority that it’s a Theirin thing,” said Hildur, smiling at the both of them. “I think it’s what keeps the line of Calenhad still kicking after hundreds of years.”

“Not for lack of trying to end it on several people’s parts,” Malcolm said. A dark resentment lingered in his tone, marked by a momentary tightening of his fingers on Líadan’s shoulder. He relaxed quickly enough, but not before she noticed. 

Fear shot through her, that he was regretting the steps they’d taken, that he truly was worried about continuing his bloodline, and that she was keeping that from happening.

Hildur nodded somewhat sadly. “Those things happen with royal lines, I’ve noticed. Within my own family, certainly.” Her pale eyes shifted over to where Bhelen stood speaking with various nobles on the other side of the room. “But here’s the thing, at least for me and Orzammar. While Bhelen becoming and being king was unhealthy for the Aeducan family, especially for my niece and my other nephew, it’s good for the dwarves as a whole. Bhelen has the right ideas and the right forward-thinking plans for what Orzammar needs to survive and even to thrive in the future. While I don’t condone his methods, if they were what the rumors say, I do condone his vision. One thing he wants to do is offer the casteless rights and privileges if they serve in the military against the darkspawn. It’s a good plan, in my opinion. The dwarven population is dwindling far too quickly, and it’s irresponsible of us as a people to continue to pretend that a third of our population doesn’t exist. He’s already brought the casteless mother of his son into his household, along with the mother’s mother.” She smiled warmly at that. “I have a great-nephew! I really never thought I’d live to see the day, being a Grey Warden and all. He named him Endrin, after my brother. A nice gesture, I think.”

“Maker, I hope when Alistair has children he doesn’t name them after _me_ ,” said Malcolm.

Líadan frowned. “Why do you say that? Malcolm is a perfectly good name.”

“That’s what you think. You didn’t grow up with it. You just take the ‘Mal’ part and you can make any horrible nickname of your choosing. Or pick any word starting with ‘mal’ and you’re good to go. Maladaptive, malicious, malformed, maladjusted, malady—which turned into ‘milady’ _way_ too often—maleficar, malaise... I could go on for ages. I’ve heard them all and I certainly wouldn’t wish that on any nephew of mine. And do you know what it means? Follower of a dove. Which, if you give it some roundabout thought, could mean follower of peace. In any case, it’s a crap name that sometimes can sound neat. There’s better names out there.”

“You realize you’re taking to someone named Hildur, right?” asked the dwarf.

“And it’s a very fine dwarven name,” Malcolm replied. “Um, what’s it mean?”

She sighed. “Battle. Pretty much the opposite of yours.” Then Hildur looked over at Líadan. “And what about you? What’s yours mean?”

“Grey lady.” Líadan narrowed her eyes at Malcolm. “Which you _knew_. When you were on your ‘let’s quit all this and become pirates’ kick, you called me the Grey Lady of the Seas.”

“I could’ve just been referring to the fact that you’re a Grey Warden. Which, as a matter of fact, I _was_.”

Hildur looked curiously between the two of them. “Pirates?”

“Long story.” Malcolm shifted from foot to foot, obviously eager to weasel out of an explanation. “Both of you need ale, right? Yes. Yes, you do. I’ll go get you some. Be back.” Then he was hurriedly striding for one of taps.

“He grew up on the Waking Sea,” Líadan said to Hildur as they watched Malcolm make his tactical retreat. “Apparently in Highever it’s every little boy’s dream to become a pirate, or something like that.”

“And we both know that little boys don’t grow up, they just get taller. Of course, not quite as tall with dwarves, but you get what I’m saying. So he still dreams about being a pirate, then? Well, mixed in with the lovely darkspawn dreams, of course. I certainly don’t envy those of you who Joined during the Blight and have more nightmares than other Wardens. Usually, the dreams pretty much go away until your Calling if you Join at any other time.”

“They’re not so bad. Not so constant like during the Blight, I mean,” Líadan said. “They were awful back then. Now, they’re... well, they’re just as awful, but they don’t happen as often.” She didn’t add that they were also easier to bear when you woke up in a cold sweat from one of them and there was someone right there next to you who completely understood. There was a certain security in that, a comfort that she hadn’t realized she was missing until she had it.

“If it’s anything like it is near a Calling then I’m impressed at your ability to endure. Hearing Riordan’s screaming through his tent or even the stone in the compound has set my hair on end. He’s made a wise decision in choosing to remain in the Deep Roads after we return my brother to the Stone.”

“I... what? What do you mean? Riordan can’t just... he can’t...” It was like Fiona’s death, only slower, and yet she was just as helpless to stop it. Her chest tightened at the idea, her breathing threatening to stop. It felt like they were losing everyone. Were the Creators so cruel that they would rip Fiona away only to take Riordan from them not even two weeks later? She knew the answer even as she thought the question—yes. Those very same Creators had allowed the darkspawn to happen, had allowed an innocent child like Rósín to die, had allowed the Blights, had allowed _Elvhenan_ to fall to the Tevinters, had let so many horrible things happen that something like this barely seemed like anything at all. She should be more surprised when something good happened because it occurred so rarely.

“He hasn’t told you yet, then.” Hildur’s hand was on Líadan’s arm, an attempt at comfort.

She barely felt it. “The ceremony is tomorrow morning. When was he going to tell me? Or was he just not going to say a word until he was all ‘oh, sorry, Wardens, I’m not going back with you’ afterwards? It wasn’t like... his situation isn’t like with—oh, sod him.”

“Líadan—”

“No, sod him. Seriously. Don’t try and make apologies for him.” She couldn’t stop the anger swelling up inside her, pushing outward at the tight bands of sorrow that had encircled her chest. “He _knows_ what happened with Fiona. He was _there_. A little warning goes a long way to alleviate the kind of pain that deaths like Fiona’s leave. So a nice heads-up when a fellow Warden decides they aren’t returning from the Deep Roads after all is a very considerate thing to do. But, no, he can’t be arsed to do that for us, can he? Better to just spring it on us at the last minute, like the thing with the archdemon and the reason why Wardens are necessary to end a Blight. He’s Ser What-Do-You-Mean-You-Didn’t-Know telling us things at the last possible sodding second when it would’ve been better to know far sooner. I hope Fen’Harel takes him and Fear and Deceit pick at his bones, because he doesn’t deserve Falon’Din’s guidance.”

Malcolm, his face pale and apologetic, emerged from the crowd holding the ale he’d gone to fetch. “I was supposed to tell you.”


	60. Chapter 60

**Chapter 60**

“The Maker smiles sadly on His Grey Wardens, as no sacrifice is greater than theirs.”

—a Chantry saying

**Líadan**

Líadan blinked at Malcolm as he handed the two mugs of ale over to Hildur. The dwarf nodded to the both of them, and then left them to their privacy, rejoining the largely self-absorbed crowd. Only then did Líadan ask him, “What?” She still scarcely believed that he’d voluntarily held that information about Riordan from her for so long, for whatever reason.

“Riordan told me two nights ago at camp. You were asleep in your tent and we just... he brought it up, and then the next morning he asked me to tell you. He thought you’d take it better from me. Of course, that precluded the fact that I’d actually _tell_ you instead of avoiding it, but you’d just seemed so... you were...” He ran a hand over his face, and then glanced over at the crowd of dwarven nobles and Wardens. A slight frown turned his mouth downward. He reached out, grasped Líadan by the hand, and then drew her toward the closest exit. “We can’t do this here.”

Though anger still writhed within her, she followed, wanting a confrontation in front of an audience no more than he did. They were both silent as they wound their way through the dwarves in the halls of the Diamond Quarter to the Warden compound. Once inside, she withdrew her hand, again unsure of where she stood with him. Between not telling her about Riordan and the comment he’d made about his bloodline, she felt like the ground under her had turned into the Beyond—always changing and never certain. She wanted to pace, but Malcolm had already started pacing, and she had no wish to copy him. So she leaned against a wall with her arms crossed over her chest, waiting for his explanation.

He ran his fingers through his shortened hair once more before facing her. “You were smiling again. I don’t know if you know this, but you don’t do it nearly as much as you should. When I saw you on the dock in Highever, and then when you told me about my mother, I thought... I really thought we might not ever see you smile again. But even though Fiona died, even though Eamon said those awful things to you, in the past few days, I’ve seen you smile. Really smile, one that touched your eyes. I just... I wanted that to last a little longer. And then... well... that whole time running out thing happened. Again. Turns out, a little longer never lasts forever, even if you want it to.”

An unbidden memory came to her, playing before her eyes over Malcolm’s plaintive face, of a moment when she’d wanted a little longer, just a little longer to help. The glint of the templar’s blade in the dappled sunlight before it flashed down toward her mother’s chest. Her own too-late realization that she had magic and didn’t need her arrows to stop the templar from killing her mother from this far away. If she’d had just a little longer, not even forever, just another solitary moment, she could have stopped him. Her mother could have lived. Then she recalled other moments, those scant instances where just a second longer could have made the difference in someone living or dying. Fiona with the second Joining. Stopping her mother and father from going out after those templars. Stopping Tamlen from touching that Creators-forsaken mirror. Stopping Zevran from going through with Morrigan’s ritual. Stopping Morrigan from hurting herself in doing what she thought she had to do. Stopping Malcolm’s Harrowing. Stopping Velanna from going into the Beyond in her place. Stopping those templars... _that_ templar... her mother. Just a little longer. 

Just a little _longer_ and if she had realized _sooner_ that the very thing that had made her parents confront the templars who killed them could have at least saved _one_ of them, she would’ve had that moment longer. But she hadn’t. Hadn’t realized, hadn’t acted in time, and a little longer had turned into nothing at all. “ _Abelas. Abelas emma tu na’din, Mamae._ ”

“What are you apologizing for?” Malcolm’s voice was quiet and far closer than she’d thought. While she’d been caught by her memories, he’d moved to stand in front of her. “You have nothing to apologize for in this. I’m the one who... wait. What you said, you said it before, in the cave. It’s what you said when you were talking to your parents. I remember you saying it. I know what _abelas_ means and _mamae_ is really obvious. Whatever it is you’re apologizing for, it isn’t your fault.”

She closed her eyes against his words. Why was this memory tearing at her now? It was old and should be _buried_. There were more recent memories, more recent deaths to be sorry about. Velanna. Fiona. And soon, Riordan. Yet instead she struggled against the stupid and sudden sobs trying to break free of her control. This wasn’t her. This wasn’t something she did. She yelled and shouted and raged and fought, that’s what she did when she was upset. That’s what she did against these memories when they jumped to the forefront as they sometimes did. 

“It isn’t.” Malcolm’s fingers brushed against her cheek, and then through the strands of her hair before dropping to rest on her shoulder. “Even if you close your eyes, it doesn’t change the fact that what happened to your parents wasn’t your fault. They made their choice. They...” he trailed off and took a hitching breath. “They chose to help you of their own free will. To save you. You couldn’t have stopped them.”

“I could have stopped the templar who killed my mother.” She’d said the words so quickly that they almost merged into one long word, such was her rush to admit her culpability.

“No. You told me the story and I’ve seen your magic. Even if—”

Her eyes snapped open as she felt the familiar fury replace the treacherous sorrow. “I could have stopped him!”

Malcolm didn’t so much as blink in the face of her anger. “Even if you had remembered you had the ability, it wouldn’t have been strong enough if you’d tried to use it on purpose. You didn’t really know how to use spells yet. The only reason you were able to kill him afterward was because you reacted instinctively from the deep, gut-wrenching rage and shock of what you’d just seen. If you’d tried magic right away, you’d be just as dead as your parents. There—”

“Just a little more time was all I needed. More time to understand I had magic, that I didn’t need my arrows. That I was _out_ of arrows because I gave them to my mother, that—”

“There was nothing you could have done. It wasn’t your fault.”

Líadan shut her eyes again, squeezing them to force away the tears as she struggled against accepting Malcolm’s words. Her memories betrayed her again as soon as her eyes were closed, yet this time instead of her mother, she saw her father. Nuada Suriel patiently teaching his little daughter how to properly use a spear, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled at her each time she did something right. His eyes shining in amusement when she scowled at each mistake she made, even though he didn’t rebuke her. _“You do that enough yourself, little blade,”_ he’d told her. _“You don’t need anyone else telling you that, too. How about I stick with encouraging you?”_  

And then she remembered a conversation she’d once had with Riordan, back at the Vigil, after one of her many little incidents with Velanna where they’d nearly come to blows. Malcolm had just gone to find Fiona, leaving Líadan in the Warden Commander’s study with the commander to, she had assumed, be yelled at. _“Is this the part where you shout at me?”_

But Riordan had only chuckled at her surliness, his light eyes unafraid and twinkling in good humor. _“No. You do that enough yourself. You don’t need anyone else yelling at you, too. I’ll just try positive reinforcement, or perhaps some nice chats that will help you sort through whatever it is you need to sort through, lass.”_ He’d talked to her and gently prodded information out of her, just as he had in the Deep Roads during the Blight. Then once the information was out, he’d helped her examine it and shine light on areas of emotion she’d thought long dark, overshadowed by anger and resentment. He’d seen things within her that she hadn’t yet realized and had been patient enough to help her see on her own, though he’d never hidden his warm amusement as she struggled to learn what to do.

And now he was going back into the Deep Roads and never returning, just as her father had walked into the forest with his spear resting on his shoulder, never to return from the darkness. She would have to watch and do nothing as he walked to his death, as helpless as she’d been when the templar’s blade had pierced her mother’s chest. As helpless as when Fiona had taken her sip from the Joining potion, choked, and then collapsed. That unbearable moment when she’d wanted time to _stop_ so that she could prevent something terrible from happening.

Just a little longer. Just a little longer and she could have intervened. Stopped her parents from walking into the forest. Stopped the templar from striking. Stopped Fiona from drinking. Stopped... stopped them from dying. From leaving. “ _Tu irvhen enadin? Abelas._ ”

“What? Come on, please don’t do this. Don’t retreat into Elvish. Don’t hide.” 

“Why does everyone leave?” she said in Fereldan. “Eventually, everybody leaves.”

Malcolm’s other hand gripped her other shoulder like the first. “I’m not leaving you. I told you that and I meant it. If I go anywhere, you’ll go with me. I mean, unless you leave me, but I think I’d chase you if you—”

Her eyes opened in astonishment that he could think that. “I wouldn’t leave. If I were going to do that, I would have ages ago. I certainly wouldn’t have gone after you when you went to Weisshaupt, I’d have left that to some other poor sod who didn’t know any better. I...” She tilted her head to the side. “You’d chase after me?”

“Try to. I’m a horrid tracker, but I’d do my best. You sort of chased after me before, in a way, so fair’s fair.” He paused for a moment, chewing at the inside of his cheek as he thought. “What makes you think I’d leave? I think I’ve made several declarations as to otherwise.”

“The conversation earlier, with Hildur. You talked about your bloodline and how people tried to end it, and if you stay with me, it could mean the end of it because—”

“That wasn’t why I was mad, if that’s what you’re thinking. I was talking about historically. During the Occupation, the Orlesians wiped out almost all direct-descendant Theirins except, I think, for my grandmother and my father. Two hundred years before that, King Arland tried to kill all of the other direct descendants of Calenhad aside from him and his heirs. Plus there’s that thing where Arl Howe almost ended the entire Cousland line, and they were my foster family. So that’s where the anger was from. As for the line now?” He shrugged. “It’s Alistair’s job to carry it on since he’s the king and all. I’ll just have to do my best to make sure my brother stays alive. That means no more letting him go on Deep Roads missions or fighting dragons and other stupid things like that. Me? I’m the spare. I can be thrown into as many recklessly dangerous situations as needed with no worries about the bloodline ending.”

“I’d rather you weren’t reckless. I already saw... what happened with Tamlen was a result of recklessness. He and I shouldn’t have gone and investigated that mirror without telling the keeper beforehand. He... I shouldn’t have let him touch it. If he’d just _waited_ before he reached out, I could have stopped him.” She leaned her head against the warm stone wall behind her and looked up at a ceiling made of the same stone. “Just a little longer.”

“If you had been given a little longer, you would’ve been the one to touch it instead of Tamlen.”

She brought her gaze to Malcolm again. “No, that isn’t—”

He moved his hands from her shoulders to scrub his face with his fingers. “Yes, that’s what would have happened. I know you.” Then he tilted his head as if struck by a sudden thought. “How is it that you weren’t the one to touch the mirror first? Did you race with him and lose?”

“I was distracted.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Distracted? What could _possibly_ have been more interesting than that mirror artifact?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the huge bereskarn we’d fought right before that? I was trying to figure out what it was and make sure it was really dead before I turned my back on it to look at the mirror. I hadn’t yet realized that the mirror was the far more dangerous thing of the two in the cavern.” She’d been nudging the strangely spiked bear with her booted foot and poking at it with her staff when Tamlen had first started toward the mirror. Between his persistent curiosity and her odd reluctance to approach the mirror, Tamlen hadn’t given her enough time to intervene. “He asked me if I saw something moving in it. I didn’t, though. I wasn’t even sure it was a mirror, because it didn’t reflect anything from the room. It was dull and clouded for the most part. At least, it was until he touched it.” Then it was like a window to a dark, black place that was somehow alive and _aware_. A shiver scampered up her spine at the memory of Tamlen’s words: _“I think it knows we’re here.”_

Malcolm must have picked up the minute tremors in her body, because the corners of his eyes crinkled slightly in concern. “What happened? You never really told us.”

“I hadn’t really wanted to.”

His face went from concerned to frustrated to blank and he seemed to notice how close the two of them where standing. Then he backed away and sat heavily on one of the stone benches lined up with the table. “Then don’t, if you don’t want to.” He stared at the floor. “Just keep it to yourself, if that’s what you want.”

She fought the impulse to roll her eyes at how he managed to take offense at her words. “I said ‘hadn’t.’ That isn’t the case now, unless you’re determined to be an arse.”

“I—no. I’m sorry.” Malcolm looked up at her with a sheepish smile. “I didn’t mean it the way it came out.” He gestured toward her. “I mean, I think I was crowding you there. Pushing you, maybe, and that you just didn’t want to talk.”

“Not wanting to talk and needing to talk are two very different things. It’s something I’ve learned from Riordan. I think he tried to teach you the same thing several times over.” Those lessons, she realized, had usually revolved around her and Malcolm speaking with each other instead of around or near or through. 

The corners of his mouth lifted even further. “I guess it never really took.”

She felt a grin of her own in return on seeing that look on his face. There was something special about it, even though she couldn’t place it, because she loved that look. Líadan then took a breath to settle herself and focus on things that, as she’d said, needed to be discussed. “To be honest, I was fascinated by the bereskarn. I mean, at the time, I didn’t know what it really was—a Blighted bear. I also had no idea what darkspawn were, but that’s another matter.” She paused as another memory surfaced, of her frustration with Merrill asking if the creatures they’d just fought on the path were darkspawn. Like she’d have _known_ and had lied about it to the keeper earlier. Another calming breath. “Anyway, he thought he saw something move. Then he was asking me if I felt anything. Mind you, this was when my back was turned. Once I looked, he was already standing at the mirror and reaching for it. I ran over, but I wasn’t fast enough. He touched it, and then we... saw things. He saw more than I did, much more. All I really saw was an inky darkness that seemed alive. But he told me that he saw an underground city and a great blackness. Then... then we both _heard_ it. Whispering, a humming whisper that we could _almost_ understand—a lot like the song we heard when we fought the archdemon. And that’s when Tamlen tried to look away and couldn’t and... that was it. Everything went painfully bright and a sound tore at my eardrums. I vaguely remember when you and Alistair and Zev found me, but the next thing I really knew was waking up at the camp.” At mentioning her former clan’s camp, she felt a pang of remorse, a reminder of how painful it had been to leave. Even now, even when she was fairly certain she had a clan and home with Malcolm and the Wardens, it still hurt. She foisted away the pain with humor, something she’d learned from her time with Malcolm and Alistair. “Oh, and then you came along and conscripted me, saying something about it being for my own good.”

Malcolm gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “That was _Alistair_. Now who’s being the arse?”

“Aren’t you always saying stuff about leading by example? I learned from your example, obviously.” Her fingers plucked at the edges of her tabard—Riordan had found replacements for all of their torn and tattered ones for their trip to Orzammar. “I wonder if we saw Arlathan.”

“I hope not.”

Her gaze snapped up from the loose thread on her clothing. “Why wouldn’t you? It’s an entire lost _Elvhen_ city. My people’s—and in part, _your_ people’s—ancient civilization. Lore and history, knowledge and power, tales and everything it meant to be _Elvhen_ lost because of the Tevinters. But if we saw it through that mirror then maybe it isn’t lost. Just... misplaced. You don’t want it to be found? You want it to be destroyed instead?”

The crooked smile evaporated from his face and he evenly met her gaze. “No. I want it to be intact. But I don’t want it to be _tainted_. And if you and Tamlen saw Arlathan through that mirror and that blackness that he saw was also there, then Arlathan is tainted and home to the darkspawn.”

He had a point, though she was loathe to admit it. Just the thought of the darkspawn making their filthy, wretched home in the ancient streets of her ancestors made her feel sick to her stomach. She wondered if the dwarves felt the same way about their lost thaigs. They must, she realized, or they wouldn’t fight like they did with the Legion of the Dead and the dwarven army to regain them. “Maybe an echo of it, then? I don’t know. Arlathan existed—and was lost—hundreds of years before the First Blight. If it was buried, I don’t see how the darkspawn could get to it.”

“By tunneling, like they do with the Old Gods. Five blights are a true testament to just how good at digging the darkspawn really are.” He sighed and slumped down on the bench, resting his back on the table and fully extending his long legs in front of him. “Though it would be nice to think that Arlathan is beyond everything the taint can touch, beyond Thedas, beyond the Fade, safe and incorruptible.” He gave a short, rueful laugh. “If that sort of place actually exists, I’ll bet all the coin I could put my hands on that it’s exactly where Morrigan intends to go.”

“Then it’s a lead. A step, at least. If the elvenrefugees from Arlathan were truly at this Cadash thaig then it’s a connection. Perhaps they ran underground from Arlathan to Cadash, using the Deep Roads tunnels they didn’t know existed. Or maybe knew existed.” The hope of finding an unsullied _Elvhen_ city faded as she mulled over her conjectures. “But if they were able to use the Deep Roads from a buried Arlathan to reach Cadash, then the darkspawn would have to be in Arlathan.”

“They could’ve fled the city before it was buried and found a surface entrance to the Deep Roads as they ran from the Tevinters.” Malcolm’s hands drifted across the top of the table next to him, searching for something to fidget with as he often did when thinking. Then he placed his hand flat on the table and gave Líadan a reassuring smile. “So don’t lose all hope.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, irritated that he’d read her so easily. “I haven’t. It’s just... sometimes it’s frightening to do so. To hope.”

“I know. Personally, I’d rather fight an archdemon. Way less scary. While the chance of death is significantly higher, the chances of emotional distress due to unmet hopes and dreams  is much lower. Unless you assumed the archdemon would be sexy-looking, because _then_ you’d be horribly disappointed when you saw it in person. Even the half-tailed dragon—after Oghren made it a half-tailed dragon—was much prettier than the archdemon.”

Líadan stared at him, once again sent into silence at his quirky humor, even though she’d known him for well over a year and had spent the majority of that time in his constant company. 

He grinned openly at her expression. “Oh, I _love_ that look.” 

She glared.

Malcolm straightened. “Okay, not so much loving that one. It’s kind of scary.”

The doors to the compound opened, admitting Oghren, who was flanked by Anders and Sigrun. “Ha!” he said on seeing the two of them, and then held his hand out to Anders. “Pay up. Or buy me a flagon tomorrow. Either way.”

Anders cursed under his breath and handed a few coins to the dwarf. “Coin now, since we’re leaving after the ceremony tomorrow. That should’ve been easy coin for me. I could’ve sworn with them just leaving the feast like that... that they’d do something fun. Make up for lost time or what have you. No. Instead, they’re having some sort of staring contest, and they aren’t even smoldering stares.” He moved his exasperated look from Oghren to Malcolm and Líadan. “What is wrong with you two? You’re wasting valuable time.”

At the mention of time, Líadan’s chest constricted, and she stiffened slightly as a result.

“Well, you’ve sodding done it now, Sparklefingers,” said Oghren. “Time is kind of a... what do you call it? Sensitive subject at the moment, what with the Commander and his little neverending walk in the Deep Roads tomorrow. Someone was supposed to tell the elf, but he got the idea in his little mind that putting it off would be better. Why do you think they were glaring? I mean, I’ve seen ‘em glare for foreplay, but those weren’t _those_ kind of glares.”

Despite the return of her sadness about Riordan, Líadan nearly giggled at Malcolm’s immediate blush as he caught the words when he was turning around to face the door. Then he lowered his head to the stone-carved table. “Why do I hang out with you people? You’re awful.”

“No, the Antivan was awful,” said Oghren. “He had it down to an art form, making you Theirin boys blush. I’ve yet to see anyone approach his level of artistry in the field.” He looked over at Sigrun. “You’d have liked the Antivan. Bet you’d have let him show you his gruesome creature of the deep.”

Sigrun’s eyes widened slightly as she turned to Oghren. “Gruesome crea—nevermind. Don’t answer. Don’t explain. In fact, just... don’t say anything at all.”

The compound’s door opened again, but none of the Wardens inside paid any mind.

“Did you know, Sigrun,” Malcolm said without lifting his head from the table, making his words slightly muffled, “that elves don’t have any facial hair at all? It just doesn’t grow. Zevran—the Antivan, as Oghren likes to call him—was an elf. Just thought I’d mention that.”

“This again?” asked Sten, walking through the open door after Riordan, Alistair, and Hildur. Then the qunari frowned at each of the Wardens already in the common room. “You all either have an unhealthy fascination with facial hair or— _parshaara_!” His lips twisted in disgust. “Rest is far more important than this.” With that, he marched down the corridor to his room.

Riordan arched an eyebrow at Hildur once Sten had closed his room’s door. “You like qunari, you said?”

She shrugged. “They grow on you.”

“So does mold,” said Malcolm. “And stop looking at me like that. He hates me. I can say what I want. My only solace is that Sten dislikes Alistair even more.”

“That’s only because he talks more than you,” said Hildur.

“Standing right here,” said Alistair. “And I’ll have you know, my talking is a defense mechanism.”

Malcolm finally lifted his head from the table. “You’ll have to pick a new one if you’re dealing with qunari. Sten mentioned something about cutting out your tongue.”

“He did no such thing.” Hildur glared at Malcolm. “He said that qunari cut the tongues out of their mages who practice forbidden magic or say bad things. Then he merely asked if your brother was a mage. After you said no, he said it was unfortunate...” she trailed off and sighed in defeat. “Okay, now I’m starting to see the threat behind his words. I take it back.”

“Yet somehow, I’m not relieved in the slightest.” Alistair scowled, and then turned to Riordan. “We had plans for tomorrow and onward to discuss before sleep, correct? Though I guess Sten doesn’t need to be a part of it.”

“As long as you’re looking for what the Tevinters are looking for and you’re killing darkspawn on the way, Sten won’t care.” Hildur climbed up onto the stone bench across from Malcolm at the table. “It will be you, Líadan, Anders, and Sten searching—”

“And Sigrun.” Líadan pushed herself off the wall and strode over to sit beside Malcolm. “Sigrun is coming with us, too. We’re going into the Deep Roads at least once, and who knows how many more times, so it would be stupid to neglect bringing a dwarf.”

Sigrun plopped down next to Hildur, and then studied Líadan carefully. “And this has nothing to do with the fact that if I don’t go, you’ll be the only woman in a band of men?”

“Can the undead even be men or women, really?” asked Malcolm. 

Oghren perked up. “If she has the parts. My first visual investigation indicates yes, but I’m willing to check more in depth, if need be. For science and all, mind you.”

“Try it, Oghren, and you’ll no longer have hands attached to your body. And that’s just for starters.” Sigrun didn’t even bother turning to look at him as she made her threat.

“Definitely a woman,” said Oghren. “Anyway, I’m not part of this trip, so I’m hitting the sodding sack. Wake me up if there’s an archdemon.” With that, he stumbled down the same corridor that Sten had taken minutes before.

“I’m fine with Sigrun going with you if she agrees,” Hildur said after a moment. “I’ll have enough of the other Senior Wardens, I think. We’ll be in garrison for the winter, anyway. Not much to do except train, along with the occasional jaunt into the Deep Roads for more training.”

Líadan gave her friend a pleading look, silently informing Sigrun that if she didn’t agree to coming along on their little journey, she might go just a little more insane than she already was. And, frankly, she didn’t have much leeway before she stepped into the realm that Velanna once held all on her own.

“I’ll go on one condition,” said Sigrun.

“Name it.” Only after she’d made the promise did Líadan realize how many different bad and horrifically embarrassing roads Sigrun could choose to go down, but she wasn’t going back on her word.

“A spyglass. Someone in the Legion told me about them.”

“Spyglass?” 

“They’re used on ships. Usually associated with pirates,” said Malcolm. “I could get one in Denerim when we go, easy.”

“Always with the pirates,” said Alistair. 

Líadan glanced over at the king. “I honestly think he still wants to be one.”

Alistair raised his eyebrows. “Oh, so you know about this little fantasy, too?”

“I’ll bet she knows more than just that little fantasy,” said Hildur.

“Oh, not you _too_.” Líadan gave the older dwarf what she hoped was a suitably betrayed look. Hildur grinned in return. 

“Okay, I’ll go,” said Sigrun.

“Good.” Hildur nodded once at the dwarf before returning her gaze to the others. “The group of you will be searching Cadash thaig, and then going from there to look for Morrigan?”

“From the maps, it looks like it’ll be easier to exit the Deep Roads at Vigil’s Keep after we leave Cadash thaig,” said Malcolm. “After that, we’ll travel south through the Wending Wood, stop to bury Velanna’s ashes before the ground freezes—given that it doesn’t freeze while we’re in the Deep Roads—and then go to Denerim. If it’s a mild winter, we can continue searching after a brief stop in the city for the Landsmeet. But if it’s a hard winter, we’ll have to wait out the weather.” He shifted uncomfortably on the bench at the idea of waiting even longer to continue the search. “Anyway, I’m not even sure how long we’ll be in the Deep Roads. If there’s enough darkspawn down there to give us trouble, it could take weeks to search the thaig effectively. But if we don’t run into many, it’ll only take days, judging from the maps.”

“I believe I can help with that,” said Riordan, who’d taken a seat at the head of the table. 

Malcolm turned to him. “What do you mean?”

“With the strength of the taint within me, the darkspawn will be able to sense me very easily. For that reason, I could not go on the mission to Kal’Hirol, or the darkspawn would have descended quickly on the party. And for that same reason, it will allow me to easily lead the darkspawn in the area in an entirely different direction from Cadash thaig. It will give you the opportunity to freely explore, as you have been tainted for less than two years, and you carry the longest time as Warden than anyone else in your group. I will be like a siren call to them, second only to the Old Gods at this point. Your passage should be relatively clear.” Though Riordan spoke of what would lead directly to his death, his tone was remarkably calm. Almost unsettlingly calm, Líadan decided.

“It’s a sound plan,” said Hildur, “if more than somewhat grim.”

“I might as well make some use of my inevitable death. It won’t be the same as killing an archdemon, but it’s better than simply dying, as it were.”

“I guess I can’t complain if that’s what you want,” said Malcolm.

Líadan leaned forward on the table to get a more clear view of Riordan. “I can.”

He gave her a fond smile. “You always can, lass. Doesn’t mean I’ll change my mind.”

She sighed and sat back, and then they hammered out as many details of the upcoming journey as they could. One by one, Wardens claimed tiredness and wandered off to sleep, Anders going first, and the rest shortly after, until only Malcolm, Líadan, and Riordan were left in the common room. Then Malcolm mumbled something about needing to read a journal he’d found before going to bed and quickly strolled out of the room. Líadan glared after him, knowing that he’d left her alone with Riordan on purpose, figuring that the two of them probably had things to discuss before Riordan walked to his death in the morning. When she turned back around to look at Riordan, she found him smiling after Malcolm.

“He learned that trick from me, I think,” he said with amusement.

Líadan spun on the bench to lean her back against the table and folded her arms over her chest. “Most likely.”

“So he didn’t tell you about my Calling until a little earlier tonight?”

“The glaring gave it away, did it?” She paused to gather her thoughts as she stared at the large brazier in the common room. “Why didn’t you tell me yourself? Why ask him?”

“For one, I didn’t think he’d put it off for this long. Not after what happened with his mother and how unexpected that was. Alistair was lucky to have taken the chance to speak with her beforehand, or they never would have spoken at all. I honestly thought he’d tell you straight after I told him.”

“When was that?”

“A couple nights ago when we were traveling here. He’d woken up from a nightmare and stumbled out of his tent to sit at the fire and clear his mind. We’d ended up in a... discussion, of sorts.”

She smirked over at him. “The kind where you give him advice couched in no uncertain terms and he tries to figure out if he should follow it?”

He returned the smile, its warmth reaching his eyes. “Something like that.”

“You realize that I had my own tent, right?”

Riordan chuckled. “Yes. I’d mentioned that you were complaining about it and told him you should just share. He gave me this mildly shocked look and said he’d mention it to you later. After I told him about my Calling, I left him and Alistair out by the fire. I had assumed he’d go to your tent, not back to his own, and tell you then. Obviously, I was wrong.” He sighed. “I suppose he and Alistair got into some other discussion and he changed his mind. Who knows. End result is that he didn’t tell you, and I was put in a position where it would be even more awkward for me to, and I apologize. After what happened with Fiona...” He made a vague motion with his hand, wincing as he did. “It wasn’t something I wanted you to find out about at the last minute.”

“It isn’t really the last minute. Last minute would be tomorrow as we walk in one direction and you walk in the other and I’d be all, ‘What? Where are you going? And why don’t you have your pack?’ _That_ would be last minute and I’d be, well, really upset.”

“You aren’t now?”

“Not like I would be.” She turned around to face him. “You have to do this, don’t you? There’s no way out of it?”

He considered his answer for a moment, finger tapping on his chin. “It is... hmm. Think of the worst nightmare you had throughout the Blight. That is what I experience every night when I dare attempt to sleep. And the song, a song that’s a little like what we heard from the archdemon, but different, more calling, really, I hear that too. All the time. Even now. This close to the Deep Roads, it’s stronger. I can see my inevitable end and I know that once I am in the Deep Roads, it will be a relief to have this Calling end. If I didn’t dream as I do or hear this Calling, I would stay. But, with things as they are, being that close to my relief only to walk away would be as difficult as staying asleep during one of my nightmares.” Riordan paused until she looked up at him. “You will all be fine, I promise. You each have the ability to do what’s necessary.”

“But who will give us advice that we won’t listen to?”

“I imagine you’ll find someone suitable to fill that role.”

Líadan ducked her head and brushed her hair out of her eyes. She’d wanted the attempt at levity to work, yet she felt no less troubled. They would lose Riordan tomorrow, and they could no more stop his slowly approaching death than they could have Fiona’s sudden one. It was strange to her, that they could do so much, stop a _Blight_ , and yet they could do nothing to save their friends. 

“What is it that your people say in their eulogy? _Souver’inan isala hamin_? Weary eyes need resting? And then _vhenan him dor’felas_?”

“Heart has become grey and slow,” she said, translating without thought. “You’re going to say that in your death is freedom, aren’t you?”

“You’re taking my lines, lass.” He smiled again. “But, yes. Freedom from the taint for the first time in many, many years. No more nightmares. No more Calling. In death, time will again be the joy it once was.”

She heard the words repeated in Elvish in her mind, like Marethari had told her as she stood over the graves of her parents. And she realized that Marethari had been right. The pain and the absolute need for vengeance for her parents’ deaths had faded almost entirely. It was there still, the bitter memory, but no longer was it all-encompassing. Life had taken hold as it often did. She glanced over at Riordan. “So you’re saying that your path to tomorrow has emerged in the Deep Roads?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

Though she didn’t want him to leave, she knew she couldn’t begrudge him the need for peace. His plea had been made very clear when he’d referenced the nightmares from the Blight. If he was suffering those even when awake, hearing that Call, she couldn’t fault him for wanting it to end. Remaining here, though it would be a solace for the rest of them, would truly be torture for him. He was her friend and she didn’t want to see him in pain. “I understand.”

“I wish you didn’t, lass. I wouldn’t wish this fate on anyone.”

She nodded, and then found that she couldn’t say anything else. So she sat with him for a while in the common room with a companionable quiet between them. After an hour, she started nodding off, and he urged her to go sleep. The tiredness was enough to make her protest mild and she stumbled for the rooms. He walked behind her, catching her when she tripped for the second time. Laughing, he led her to Malcolm’s room and told her it was for her own good before opening the door and pushing her gently inside. Unable—or unwilling—to find another room, she conceded and crawled into the already-occupied bed. The feeling of loss was overcome by the feeling of safety from Malcolm’s arm wrapping around her in his sleep. 

The Wardens and the Legion of the Dead watched as Riordan strode into the darkness of the Deep Roads the next morning. “ _Atrast nal tunsha_ , Grey Warden,” a member of the Legion called to Riordan’s back. “May you always find your way in the dark.”

Líadan knew that Riordan had already found his way—on a path that would end in a long-awaited peace.


	61. Chapter 61

**Chapter 61**

“The undead exhumed

Borne from the shallowest graves

Mined from the living.”

— _Paragon Lynchar_ , 7:44 Storm

**Malcolm**

“You know what I hate?” asked Líadan.

“Darkspawn would be appropriate,” said Sten.

“Templars?” asked Anders.

“Uncomfortable topics?” asked Sigrun.

“Pigeons?” asked Shale. The golem had been working the past months with the Legion of the Dead, and had taken to walking with the Wardens in the last few days. The Legion’s first visit to Cadash thaig had confirmed Shale’s previously revealed history, one which she’d reluctantly shared with those she’d accompanied during the Blight. Malcolm had been reduced to giggles at the revelation that Shale had once been a girl, while Líadan had barely kept a straight face. The golem, however much she objected that she didn’t have the same feelings as the lowly squishy creatures, was still bitter about the incident. “No? Perhaps the insipid prince, then? _It_ is worth hating, especially when it cannot contain its laughter.”

“Imagine the conversations you could’ve had during the Blight if the others had known you were a girl,” said Malcolm. “You could’ve talked about shoes or clothes or... well, no. You don’t wear shoes. Or clothes. And you don’t have hair. I suppose your crystals count as accessories—”

“I will squish it if it keeps talking,” said Shale.

Sten gave the golem a pleading look. “Please do. The silence would be most welcome.”

“It has a loud mouth. Why its head has not been crushed already is difficult to imagine.”

Malcolm huffed, but remained quiet. He contented himself with scratching behind Gunnar’s ears while the mabari walked beside him as the group trudged through the Deep Roads. They were nearly to Cadash thaig, at least that’s what the maps, the Legion, and Shale insisted. The Legion had also chattered on about how different Cadash thaig was from every other city, fortress, and thaig they’d seen in the Deep Roads. When the Wardens had asked what the big deal was, the Legionnaires had only smiled and told them to wait and see. Riordan’s plan on leading the darkspawn away from the other Wardens seemed to have worked, as the group hadn’t encountered any resistance from darkspawn in their days-long trek towards Cadash. Thus far, they’d only run into thaig crawlers and deepstalkers. Malcolm could’ve done without the giant spiders, but he figured with the lack of darkspawn, he couldn’t really be that choosy. Especially when the paucity of darkspawn had been caused by a friend’s sacrifice. He didn’t like the broody direction his thoughts were taking, so he went back to the subject of Shale. “You know, Shale, somehow I think you’re cuter now than before.”

“It is testing me, I know it,” said Shale. 

Sten shared a momentary, solemn look with the golem before saying, “Yes.”

After a pause, Shale glanced back at Malcolm with an oddly calculating look on her stony face. “What of the swamp witch? Shall I bring it up or is it a sore subject?”

“Oh, that was wonderfully catty,” said Anders. “I’ll be honest, I had my doubts before, but I’m now fully convinced you were a female dwarf before the whole golem thing.”

Malcolm shrugged. “Bring it up all you want. Part of the reason we’re going to Cadash thaig is to hunt for clues about where Morrigan might be.”

One of the golem’s eyebrows raised. Malcolm had always thought that an interesting detail for the dwarves to add by including eyebrows. It made the golem’s face particularly expressive, especially when accompanied by an astonishingly dry sense of humor such as Shale’s. “It is looking for it, then? Do you wish to determine the swamp witch’s true nature? I must admit, I tried to determine that myself during the Blight. I discovered that the swamp witch was a most confusing creature.”

Líadan snorted. “I’ll say.”

“I doubt you’re the first to say so,” Malcolm said. “And I doubt you’ll be the last. She is most assuredly quite confusing.”

“If it is trying to seek answers from the swamp witch, it must be aware that the swamp witch’s answers are dodgy at best.”

“You know, for a golem, you’re awfully insightful.” Malcolm studied Shale for a moment in an attempt at figuring the creature out. She was certainly something unique since she was the only golem anyone knew of that had free will. He couldn’t even remember where the control rod was. Maybe Shale had thrown it into Lake Calenhad. Seemed appropriate, if she had. 

“I learned things from watching that village for thirty years. It would be surprised at what I know. And how I know what I see when I see it.”

Sigrun drew to a sudden halt, tilted her head upward, and sniffed the air. “Do you smell that? I smell dirt.”

“Understandable,” said Sten, “as we are covered in it.”

She rolled her eyes. “No, not _that_ dirt. Not the darkspawn corruption, either. It’s like soil from the surface. The kind that’s all black and rich and smells like falling leaves and sunlight!” 

“We are nearing Cadash thaig,” said Shale. “You will understand soon.”

“You’re as bad as the Legion.” Malcolm picked up his walking speed anyway. He was eager for a change of pace from the endless trudge through the lava-lined, taint-corrupted halls of the Deep Roads.

“I shall consider that a compliment.” Shale nodded once, and then lumbered forward. 

Ahead, in the flickering light of the torches some of the Legionnaires carried, Malcolm thought he saw the glistening of a pool of water. While it wasn’t uncommon to find standing water in the Deep Roads, it was often stagnant and tainted, and only dully reflected the light. This water looked normal, at least from this distance. He walked faster and picked up the tang of fresh water on the air, most likely just how Sigrun had smelled the scent of good soil. 

“Is that fresh water?” Líadan asked from beside him, matching his speed.

When they reached the water they had caught a glimpse of, they discovered that it wasn’t a tainted, stagnant pool. It was not only fresh, but it had a current. It was an entire underground river that carried no taint whatsoever, at least that Malcolm could sense. He squatted next to it, removed a gauntlet, and thrust his hand into the water. It was cold enough that it was almost painful, but it was wonderfully clean. He wanted to leap right in and wash off all the dirt Sten had mentioned earlier. They had waterskins with them that used the water runes he’d seen at Weisshaupt and Orzammar, but bathing by torchlight with a rag held nothing to a tub or a freshwater pool or stream. “It’s fresh,” he said out loud, unable to keep the confusion from his voice. “But we’re in the Deep Roads.”

“Gets better, Warden,” said one of the nearby Legionnaires. Then he pointed toward a darkened archway Malcolm hadn’t noticed. “There’s the entrance to Cadash thaig.”

Malcolm stood, shook the water off his hand, and wiped it dry on his breeches before replacing his gauntlet. As he followed the heavily armored dwarf through the large doorway, he heard Líadan mumble something behind him about coming back out here for a bath later if there wasn’t any sort of creature in the river that could possibly try to eat her. 

“Nah,” said another Legionnaire. “Just fish, Warden. We checked. Makes a nice dietary change from deepstalkers, bronto, and the occasional nug, let me tell you.”

After a week of Deep Roads field rations, fresh fish roasted over an open fire sounded absolutely delicious to Malcolm. His stomach growled at the thought. 

“I agree,” said Líadan. Anything further she might have added went unsaid, as they were stepping into Cadash thaig, and into a riot of green. The elf’s mouth hung slightly open as her eyes roved over the thaig. No trace of the taint lingered anywhere in the ancient city. Green moss and grass carpeted almost every available surface. Where there was soil, there was grass, and where there was only rock, there was moss. The entrance was set higher from the rest of the thaig, allowing them to see the entire place. A river ribboned lazily through the middle of the settlement, as clean and fresh as the section of the same river just outside. “It isn’t tainted,” she said, still mostly occupied with her unabashed staring.

The other Wardens fared no better than the elf. When the Legion had said to expect something different from Cadash thaig, never in any of their wildest dreams had they contemplated something like this. Malcolm squinted up to find shafts of sunlight filtering down through sizable holes in the cavern’s ceiling. The sunlight carried crisp air with it, air nothing like the dank air they normally had to breathe when they were in the Deep Roads. “Was this what thaigs were like before the First Blight?” Malcolm asked.

“No, Warden,” the Legionnaire captain, Jeroen, said. “Mostly, the thaigs were like you see now, just with less taint and darkspawn. Maybe less thaig crawlers, too, at least in the main sections of the thaigs.”

“Thank the Maker for _that_ ,” Malcolm said under his breath. 

“I don’t know,” said Líadan. “I mean, I’m not sure about the rest of you, but watching a big, sword-toting warrior running away from a spider while screaming like a little girl is fairly entertaining. Not sure I’d want to give that sort of thing up just like that.”

Malcolm ignored the comment, refusing to add to the elf’s entertainment any more than necessary. Because, _apparently,_ each time they’d run into thaig crawlers over the past week had been the height of hilarity for her in the face of his abject fear. After resisting throwing a glare at Líadan, he addressed Jeroen. “This place doesn’t even feel like the Deep Roads at all. It’s almost like being on the surface, just with less sky.”

“And that’s the blessing of the Ancestors, right there,” a nearby dwarf said. 

“Maybe,” said Sigrun. “Once you get used to it and realize you won’t fall up into it, the sky’s kind of nice.”

“It is not. It is full of those flying foul vermin called birds.” Shale stomped through the archway and joined the group standing at the top of the hill next to a large statue. “This is far better.”

“Anyway, with how different this thaig is, we figured we should make some sort of permanent detachment here for the time being,” said Jeroen. “Plus there’s the pack of Shapers that Orzammar is sending in another week who want to catalogue and study everything found here. Better to make a semi-permanent base. Shale has offered to help to the best of her ability with guarding from any darkspawn and with remembering anything she can of her past here.” He pointed toward some buildings that had signs of being newly-restored. “We’ve barracks over there. We’ll have more of the Legion rolling through here in the next week with the Shapers, part of King Bhelen’s push to regain the fortress of Kal’Hirol for good. Best not waste the work you Wardens did in there to clear out the broodmothers.”

“No, best not,” Malcolm said, his voice fading as he winced and looked away. The trip the Wardens had taken to Kal’Hirol had resulted in his mother being re-tainted. It wasn’t something he wanted to think about if it could be helped. Then he realized how awkward he was making things, and returned his attention to Jeroen. “Have you figured out why this thaig is so different from the others?”

Jeroen shook his head. “That’s something you should ask the Shaper who’s been here.” He motioned toward another of the restored buildings. “Her name’s Kadri. You might have to call her name a few times to get her attention. She tends to get really into her research. But she’s been expecting us, or at least told that we were coming, so she might be more aware of her surroundings today than she usually is. There’s another building we’ve set aside for non-Legion people, so you can bunk yourselves in there, Wardens. Human-sized cots in there, too, I might add. Out of curiosity, how long do you plan on staying here?”

“Not sure.” Malcolm shrugged. “However long it takes to find what we’re looking for, I suppose.”

“And what is it exactly that you’re looking for?”

“Evidence of elves, I think.” Malcolm looked to Líadan for confirmation. 

She nodded and took the initiative from him. “Further evidence other than what we read in that message we found outside Kal’Hirol and the documents at the Shaperate,” she said to Jeroen. “More than one thing we’ve come across has hinted that the dwarves of Cadash took in elven refugees from Arlathan.”

“Definitely out of my realm of knowledge, Warden.” Jeroen inclined his head toward the Shaper’s ramshackle office. “Kadri might have some answers for you. Might want to get settled in first, though. At least stow your gear so you don’t have to tote it around the thaig. And don’t worry about securing your belongings. No one will steal from the Wardens.”

Sigrun gave him a disapproving look, a reminder of the incident from a couple days ago when one of the newer members of the Legion had taken it upon himself to nick Sten’s sword to get a better look at it. Though the dwarf had claimed he was going to give it back since he just wanted to see it up close, it hadn’t gone over well. Sten had dangled the young, hapless dwarf by one leg until he’d confessed to every crime imaginable and begged for forgiveness. In the end, the qunari had let the dwarf go on the condition that he never speak to him again. Ever.

Jeroen shifted his feet. “Again, anyway. No one will steal from the Wardens _again_.”

“Qunari can be scary like that,” said Malcolm. “Remarkably effective in discouraging petty theft and probably all sorts of criminal acts.”

“And yet I apparently do nothing to discourage excessive talking.” Sten’s glare of disapproval was equally spread between Malcolm, Sigrun, and Anders. Thus far, his travels with the three of them had been a test of what he claimed to be his highly developed qunari patience. 

“The insipid prince has been quieter than it was the first time I traveled with it,” said Shale. “The qunari’s efforts have been more effective than it thinks.”

Malcolm sighed. “Don’t get too excited. I’m sure I’ll be back to chattering in defiance of your temper in no time, Sten.” With that, he moved past the qunari and the golem toward the building Jeroen had indicated before. Dumping his pack before he started traipsing about the thaig seemed like a very good idea. Gunnar stayed outside, content with rolling himself in the grass. The air in the stone building was cool and slightly damp, with the interior softly lit by torches held by metal sconces. There was a central room that served as a hub to four other, smaller rooms. Malcolm was impressed. The Legion had certainly done a lot of work in restoring the thaig already. He ducked into the first one and tossed his stuff on the floor. When he exited the room, he found that most of the others had followed him into the building and were exploring the other rooms. Líadan wasn’t among them and he frowned in confusion. She’d been right behind him, he’d thought. 

“Still outside,” said Sigrun when she wandered out of a room and saw his expression. “She said something about the sun.”

“The sun?” 

“I figured another long-time surfacer would know what she was talking about. I guess not.” Sigrun shrugged. “You go ask. Personally, I’m going to take a nap.”

Malcolm found Líadan basking under one of the shafts of sunlight that streamed through the holes in the rock above their heads. She’d settled herself in the grass and leaned against a reclining Gunnar, her eyes closed and head tilted into the light. It reminded him of the last extended trip they’d taken into the Deep Roads, back during the Blight, when by the end they’d all been desperate to catch just a little glimpse of the sun and sky. The world outside Orzammar had been grey and the weather sleeting, but it hadn’t mattered, because there’s been light and the wonderfully open, welcoming sky. The holes in the stone ceiling of Cadash thaig were as close as they were going to get until they found the evidence they were looking for. Or for the next week, whichever came first. If they didn’t find anything in a week, they would have to leave and return. Alistair was calling the winter Landsmeet in Denerim and Malcolm was required to attend so that he could propose the changes he had in mind for Vigil’s Keep and the Arling of Amaranthine. That, and there were probably details to work out with Anora. If this idea of Alistair and Anora actually going through with a wedding came to fruition, it would be sooner rather than later. He resisted sighing at the idea that Anora would become, for all intents and purposes, a sister soon. He doubted she would turn down the idea, even after being told that she wouldn’t be taking control of the throne like she had with Cailan. But still. _Anora_. 

He rubbed at his eyes as he held in the sigh, and then looked at Líadan again. One side of her mouth had curled into a slight smile. “You might as well sigh. I can tell you want to,” she said after he stared at her for a moment. Then her eyes popped open and she grinned at him.

“I’m not even going to bother asking how you knew I was here,” he said. “Let alone how you knew I was trying not to sigh.”

“I can tell your footsteps from other people’s. Simple.” She got to her feet and Gunnar let out a huff of indignation. After nudging the mabari with her foot, she looked over at Malcolm again. “You were holding your breath. You do that when you’re trying not to sigh. Or laugh, I suppose, so it was partly a guess.” She started in the direction of the Shaper’s building.

He followed. “I was thinking about Alistair and Anora.”

She made a face, and then sighed.

Malcolm nodded. “Exactly.”

“Let’s just not think about it until we’re in Denerim. Or at all, if possible.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.” He walked through the door and into a room cluttered with stacks of books, artifacts, and crates of various sizes. The sheer amount of objects in the room gave it a cramped feeling, even though the room, in comparison to other rooms they’d seen in the thaig’s buildings so far, was a large one. A redheaded dwarf sat at stone table in the middle of the room, her youngish face half-hidden by a listing pile of books. When she didn’t look up from her task as they walked into the room, Malcolm cleared his throat to get her attention. “Excuse me? Shaper Kadri?”

The dwarf jumped slightly and nearly tipped back in her stool. “Oh! I wasn’t expecting anyone. You gave me a fright. Come in, come in.” She motioned with her hand, and then made an effort to clear some of the space in front of her so she could see them properly. “I’m a Shaper Assistant, actually, not a full Shaper. But that doesn’t matter. Call me Kadri. So you’re Grey Wardens, are you? You’re the only sort of humans and elves that come into the Deep Roads. The rest of them have the sense to stay away for the most part.”

“See, I knew going into the Deep Roads was a bad idea,” Malcolm said to Líadan, keeping his tone light. 

“We’re chasing after _your_ ex, not mine,” she replied. 

“But it’s your people’s history we’re researching.”

“And partly yours, being elf-blooded as you are.”

He frowned at having no reply for that and decided not to address it. “This place doesn’t feel like Deep Roads, though.”

“It really doesn’t, you’re certainly right about that,” said Kadri. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your names.”

Malcolm had the decency to blush a little at his lapse in manners. “Sorry. Yes, we’re Grey Wardens. I’m Malcolm.”

“Líadan,” said the elf. “There are more Wardens with us, too. Sigrun is the dwarf, and the other human is Anders. The qunari is Sten. The dog is a mabari we call Gunnar.”

Kadri clapped her hands together. “A mabari? Really? I’ve read about them. We don’t really see them in Orzammar. I’d like to meet him, if I could. They sound so wonderful!”

“They drool and slobber,” said Malcolm, who received an elbow to the ribs from Líadan on Gunnar’s behalf. “But they’re all right if you ignore those two traits.” At Kadri’s confused look, he grinned. “He’s right outside. You can meet him whenever we’re done talking. But we wanted to ask first about what you’ve encountered here. For instance, do you know why this place is so different from all the other thaigs?”

“Elves, I believe,” Kadri said, and her gaze moved to Líadan. “There were elves who took refuge here—at least I’m fairly certain there were—and they had some sort of influence on the ground and life itself in some way. You’ve seen how the taint hasn’t taken hold here. There’s the added aspect of the sunlight, too, coming through the rocks overhead. Normally dwarves plug that up or don’t build thaigs where the sun breaks through. But here, it’s like they wanted that light.”

“If elves were really here, I can’t imagine they’d be able to stand staying underground without seeing the sun,” said Líadan. “Though I can’t explain how they’d keep the taint away. That would’ve been a trick we all would’ve liked to know through the Ages.”

“I assume it’s magic of some sort.” Kadri picked up a document, studied it for a moment, and then dropped it before sorting through other papers. Then she frowned, slid a book from one of the various stacks, and opened it. After a moment, she nodded to herself before handing it to Líadan. “Maybe you can help with this. Most of the writing is illegible, worn away from aging since there isn’t lyrium in the ink. The parts that _are_ legible, I can’t read because I don’t know Elvish. At least, I think that’s Elvish. Can you read it?”

Líadan accepted the book and her brows scrunched together as she read the opened pages. She looked up sharply after a moment. “You found this here? You’re sure?”

Kadri nodded. “Yes! Here. In this building, in fact, before the Legion finished their restoration.” Her light eyes shined with an excited sort of hope. “So you can read it?”

“Yes, but... this makes no sense.” Líadan set the book on the table in front of the dwarf. Malcolm moved forward so he could stand behind her and see what it was the two women were discussing. He could almost feel the confusion rolling off Líadan. The elf pointed at what seemed to be the main passage of the page. “Here, someone named Saitada Taharial writes that he taught the Tevinters about lyrium and how it could be used to enter the Beyond. Then he has an addendum that they never should have taught them that or other methods of powering magic. That, in of itself, is disturbing, because I’m not sure I want to even contemplate the implications of what that really means. But other than that, there’s this inscription here.” She pointed to something scribbled underneath the finely printed text, like marks a student would make when either taking sloppy notes or defacing a book. “Here, someone’s added their own note in answer to the text. It says: ‘No! You shouldn’t have! And then you left us all! They found some of the eluvians, and all the ones they touch, they break. Their mortality touches even our work that you left behind. None will be able to reach where you have gone, Elders. We are lost.’ That’s exactly what it says, word for word. I don’t understand.” Líadan glared at the book as if it were a traitor to her people.

Malcolm glanced around the room and found a second stool. He removed the books resting on top of it and brought it over to Líadan. She sat down heavily, her eyes remaining accusingly on the book, and mumbled a thank you. But her mind, as far as he could tell, wasn’t on anything except for what she’d just read. 

“That doesn’t prove that the elves were here,” said Kadri. “Though if that’s Elvish, then it does explain some of the carvings we’ve seen in some of the buildings. So maybe it does confirm that they were here.” When Líadan didn’t reply, Kadri tilted her head to the side, and her eyes became concerned. “Are you okay? Was it something in what you read?”

Líadan bent over the book again, her finger tapping on a single word. “Eluvian. I don’t even know what that is, but somehow I feel like I should. And who are these Elders who left them? Where did they go? And what’s this about powering magic with something other than lyrium? There’s your own personal ability to channel power from the Beyond that can become exhausted and that’s why you use lyrium potions. Sometimes you don’t have enough of that ability in the first place, if a spell is too powerful, and you use lyrium then, too. The only other method of powering spells I know of isn’t something I’d like to think my ancestors avidly practiced.”

“Lyrium?” asked Kadri. “I remember reading something about that. Hold on.” She hopped off her stool and trotted over to another stack of books. After staring at them for a moment, she carefully pulled one from the bottom, and then brought it to the table. Líadan jumped when Kadri placed the new book on top of the old one. “This is one of the other books we found, but this one had lyrium in the ink. We can read all of it, but it doesn’t mention anything we haven’t already learned from the Dalish, for the most part. Myths, mostly, and some stuff that an ancient Shaper transcribed. But there’s one passage here that sticks out now that you’ve translated the other.” Kadri flipped through the pages, and then pointed out a passage. “It’s written by someone called Gisharel, scion of the House Ralaferin of Arlathan.”

Líadan blinked. “Gisharel? He’s one of the primary Dalish historians. Most of what my people know, we know because of him. What does this say? I can read the Dwarven that’s like Fereldan Common, but not this runic stuff.”

“It says that their first ‘dreamers’ learned the use of lyrium to enter the Fade from elven captives, and these dreamers later became the first of the Imperium’s ruling magisters,” said Kadri. “You mentioning lyrium reminded me of that. Sounds conflicting, though, since the passage you read made it sound like the ancient elves taught the Tevinters voluntarily.”

“I know.” Líadan leaned an elbow on the table. “Though I doubt my people would be exempt from the idea of cleaning up their own history.” She frowned at the book before turning to Kadri. “Did you say House Ralaferin of Arlathan? Are you sure that’s what’s on that page?”

Kadri checked again, and then nodded. “Yes. Why?”

“Every other account I’ve read of his has him as the keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish. So perhaps this was a predecessor or maybe it was him, and somehow, over time, his position was changed to something more recognizable. But that makes no sense. Why change history? It’s history, my people’s history, and its validity is part of what makes it important. Otherwise it’s just myth and legend and so much of it has already slipped into that realm. And I’m not even sure that it’s as proud a history as I believed. I mean, for us to have voluntarily given the Tevinters knowledge so powerful would be... it’s like they signed their own death sentence. And if what I think the other passage alludes to is true, it’s worse than that.” Líadan’s eyes were slightly wide, as if horrified by the direction of her own thoughts. 

Malcolm had been mulling over the possibilities himself, eliminating explanations one by one until he was left with the only thing that made sense. “Do you think that the elves of Arlathan taught the Tevinters about blood magic?”

“Possibly.” Líadan’s gaze remained distant, like she was disbelievingly witnessing an ancient betrayal. “And it seems some of the Elders left. They didn’t stay and fight, they just up and left. Went... somewhere. But where? Where could they have gone? Creators, if the Chantry ever found out that the elves of Arlathan knew blood magic and taught the Tevinter humans, they would call another Exalted March on my people. It would go very badly for all elves, Dalish or city. We would be wiped out.”

“Some people would even say it was deserved, if they believed the Chantry’s version of how the darkspawn came about,” said Malcolm, thinking of the nasty blame people would place on the elves in an excuse to wage war on them. “They might even go so far as to say that the elves were the reason the Golden City was corrupted. That the elves were the reason that the darkspawn and the Blight came about.”

“Deserved?” Líadan’s voice took on a dangerous tone as she rounded to face him. 

He took a step back, holding up his hands to fend her off, just in case. “I didn’t say _I_ thought that. I’m saying that people would use it as an excuse. Exalted March and all that. New scapegoats, since elves are everywhere and folks rarely see a Tevinter. And most people don’t need much of an excuse for violence anyway.”

She relaxed, the sudden anger disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. The worry and fear the anger had replaced made a return, along with the lost look to her eyes. “So where did they go? Why were they practicing blood magic, if that’s what it was?” The elf pushed aside the book Kadri had placed on the first to study the Elvish words once more.

“I take it most elves with magical abilities don’t use blood magic?”

“Not as a general rule, no. It’s rarely even mentioned, except to note what it is, how it can power spells, and how it also draws the demons to us even more when we sleep. Only a really strong-willed mage would be able to stand the constant pressure of the demons. But at that point, the mage really wouldn’t _need_ to use blood magic. They’re strong enough on their own. And if they have to use a spell powerful enough to call for more willpower than they possess, there’s lyrium or other mages instead of resorting to blood. Sure, it’s a way to access more power, but in the end, it weakens you. You either take your own life force or someone else’s. So your body is weakened and subjected to demons, or you have to rely on other people to provide the blood. It just isn’t practical, in my opinion.”

He couldn’t help the slight grin forming on his lips. “You sound like Morrigan. She said much the same when I asked her about blood magic once.”

Líadan looked up at him and seemed genuinely pleased at the comparison. “Not surprising, considering Morrigan is the most powerful mage I’ve ever met. Wynne said the same, aside from Flemeth, who doesn’t count anyway because she isn’t mortal.”

“So you think she’s still alive?”

“After all you’ve told me about those dreams about dragons and what happened in the Fade during your Harrowing? Yes. Absolutely. I absolutely believe that Flemeth is alive. I think she wants Morrigan, too. Or at least Morrigan’s child. The Old God. I hate to think of what Flemeth will _do_ with such a child. I can’t imagine it would be pleasant for it.” Another frown marred her face, and her glance fell downward to the book again, where her finger still rested on the troublesome Elvish word. “Eluvian,” she said. “It must be an ancient word. Why wouldn’t its meaning have been passed on?”

“Maybe it wasn’t important?” asked Kadri, and then she waved off the coming objections from the other two people in the room. “No, no. That doesn’t make sense. Whoever scribbled that note made it sound like eluvians were fairly important. Something to get upset over, at least.”

“I can try to break the word down. If it’s like most Elvish, it’s made of a bunch of little components from other words.” She blinked at the confused looks from Malcolm and Kadri. “It’s just how the language works, okay? I knew I should’ve paid better attention in those classes with Keeper Marethari and Hahren Paivel.” Líadan was muttering more to herself now than the others. “But I wasn’t the keeper’s First. That was _Merrill_ , so I didn’t _have_ to pay attention. That was her job, not mine. She would be way better at figuring this out.” Her gaze on the book and the ancient word became more troubled.

“We could try to find her. Them. Your clan, I mean,” Malcolm said after a moment’s hesitation. “They might be able to help. Merren said something about running into the Mahariel clan in the Planasene Forest, didn’t he?”

Líadan’s fingers rubbed over the script of the scribbled message. “They aren’t my clan anymore. The Wardens are.”

The sadness and resignation in her voice made something in his chest tighten. He didn’t want her to sound like that, to _feel_ like that, and just wanted to make her pain stop. “Sorry. Former clan, then. Or is asking them out of the question? Do you—nevermind. We can talk about it later.” He had more questions, but had remembered the Shaper Assistant’s presence in the cramped room. This didn’t seem like a subject to be spoken about with a near-stranger present. Though he knew if Líadan had her way, they wouldn’t discuss it at all. But her former clan would be an invaluable resource in their search, especially if they could talk over their findings with Marethari and Merrill, since from what Líadan had said, they knew more of Elven history and language than she did.

“Later.” Her answer was almost listless. She closed both books and picked up the one in Elvish before turning to Kadri. “May I take this? I promise I’ll return it. Or at least a translation or a copy or something from the Dalish. Maybe I can find something more about these eluvians.”

“I’ll hold you to providing the Shaperate with a translation, Warden,” said Kadri, “but yes, you may take it with you. We’re going to be doing more excavations this week if you’d like to help. Maybe you’ll notice something we won’t. You’ll at least be able to read stuff we can’t.”

Líadan smiled. “I’d love to.”

Three days later, one of the Legion’s excavation teams uncovered a thick, metal door in a dig on the far side of the thaig. They pried it open, the hinges complaining in a rusty whine, took one look inside, and called Kadri. Líadan and Malcolm followed on Kadri’s excited heels—the dwarf honestly reminded Malcolm of Sigrun at times—eager to see the new discovery. Kadri went in first, exclaiming at what she found, Malcolm stepping in right behind her. He stopped short at what he saw and heard Líadan do the same with a small intake of breath. 

On short, wide stone pedestal in the middle of the room stood the same thing that had once tainted Líadan and her friend Tamlen. Yet instead of it being a mirror, only the wrought metal frame remained, inscriptions engraved up and down its sides. The glass, or whatever glass-like material that had been used to construct the mirror, was scattered below it. The largest piece they could find was crushed nearly to the fineness of sand. 

Kadri had already leapt up onto the pedestal, nose practically touching the inscriptions she was trying to read. Líadan called out for Kadri to be careful, to stop, her legs propelling her forward to grab the dwarf before she could touch anything. The elf barely caught herself from grabbing Kadri, her hands hovering over the dwarf’s shoulders. She shook herself like she was waking up from a dream and shaking off the memory. “Sorry,” she said to Kadri. “I... I’ve seen one of these before. Intact. At least it was before it was destroyed. It carried the taint.”

The dwarf took a step back from the mirror’s casing. “Is this—”

“No,” said Malcolm. “It’s as broken as the other one, but in an entirely different way. There’s no taint here.” He gave Líadan a significant look. “There’s no danger.”

Her smile was sheepish when she glanced over at him. “I know. I know now.” Then she took a steadying breath and bent to read the words Kadri was pointing out. Within minutes of study, Líadan suddenly stood up straight. “This is what they were talking about. This is an eluvian.” Her fingers traced over a word at the bottom of the frame, and then again at the top. “It says it here and here again. Eluvian.”

Malcolm stepped up and stood next to her, peering at the words as if he could understand them, which he couldn’t. “So it isn’t Tevinter after all.”

“Apparently not. Though the statues to the sides certainly are Tevinter. But I guess Tevinter could’ve taken it for a while, like that message said, and then some of the elves stole it back. But I guess it was broken.” She reached out and ran her fingers lightly over the frame. “Everything they touch, they break,” she said, repeating the words she’d read in the book days before. “Wherever you have gone, we cannot follow. Where did you go, I wonder? And why couldn’t anyone follow?”

No one in the room had an answer. For hundreds, if not thousands, of years, no one had even known it was a question that needed to be asked.


	62. Chapter 62

**Chapter 62**

“I detest this notion that the Veil is some manner of invisible ‘curtain’ that separates the world of the living from the world of the spirits (whether it be called the Fade or the Beyond is a matter of racial politics I refuse to indulge in at the moment). There is no ‘this side’ and ‘that side’ when it comes to the Veil. One cannot think of it as a physical thing or a barrier or even a ‘shimmering wall of holy light’ (thank you very much for that image, Your Perfection).

Think of the Veil, instead, as opening one’s eyes.

Before you opened them, you saw our world as you see it now: static, solid, unchanging. Now that they are open, you see our world as the spirits see it: chaotic, ever-changing, a realm where the imagined and the remembered have as much substance as that which is real—more, in fact. A spirit sees everything as defined by will and memory, and this is why they are so very lost when they cross the Veil. In our world, imagination has no substance. Objects exist independently of how we remember them or what emotions we associate with them. Mages alone possess the power to change the world with their minds, and perhaps this forms the nature of a demon’s attraction to them—who can say?

Regardless, the act of passing through the Veil is much more about changing one’s perceptions than a physical transition. The Veil is an idea, it is the act of transition itself, and it is only the fact that both living beings and spirits find the transition difficult that gives the Veil any credence as a physical barrier at all.”

—from _A Dissertation on the Fade as a Physical Manifestation_ by Mareno, Senior Enchanter of the Minrathous Circle, 6:55 Steel

**Malcolm**

For the four days they had remaining at Cadash thaig, they spent almost all their waking hours poring over the books and documents or studying every inch of the eluvian. In the end, they left with far more questions than answers, and plans to stop there again when they could. Kadri agreed to send messages to Vigil’s Keep via the Legion on their patrols to Kal’Hirol. But the duty of the Landsmeet and a continued search pulled them away from Cadash thaig sooner than either of them would’ve liked. Sten was happy enough to leave, as he’d been impatient to leave before they’d even arrived. Anders was just plain restless, claiming he had nothing to do and digging was getting boring.

“What, is it too hard on your delicate mage hands?” Líadan asked from one of the deeper holes, dirt and dust smeared liberally across her face. Malcolm had contemplated telling her about it, and then had decided it amused him too much. It possibly even looked adorable, not that he would ever mention that to her. Ever, lest he find himself on the wrong end of a lightning spell. “I’m a mage,” Líadan pointed out, “and _I’m_ working.”

“I’m better at other things,” Anders said.

Malcolm frowned over the handle of his shovel, trying to get a better look at what the mage was working on. “What are you up to, anyway? Are you making _more_ health poultices?”

Anders’ tone turned indignant. “As a matter of fact, I am. Nothing wrong with that. You could injure yourselves with that heavy lifting, you know. Or trip and fall. Cut yourselves on some old, rusted sword, even. You never know.”

“Health poultices, though? You’re a healing mage. Do we really even need poultices?” asked Líadan. 

“Are you saying you know how to heal? Or that you think I’m so fantastic that I can be everywhere at once?”

“This is why we cut the tongues out of our mages,” said Sten.

As nearby dwarves laughed, Líadan turned to glare at the qunari. A glare that wasn’t nearly as effective as usual due to the dirt on her cheeks and forehead. That, and Sten never really seemed affected by any glares anyone gave him. Malcolm rested his forehead on the handle of his shovel, eager to be out of the Deep Roads and on the surface where people were less cantankerous. Or at least less apt to snipe between themselves as frequently. Maybe.

Once they were out, Sigrun seemed relieved to be away from the Legion since she wasn’t yet entirely used to being primarily a Grey Warden instead of a Legionnaire. It reminded Malcolm of Líadan’s slow adaptation from being the member of a Dalish clan to becoming a Warden. Which, in turn, reminded him of a conversation he and Líadan still needed to have about the possibility of visiting her former clan to try and garner further insights into their discoveries. Each time he’d brought it up, she’d deftly changed the subject. Once, she had even outright run off, leaving him sputtering in disbelief at her transparency. 

They resupplied at the Vigil and checked in with Hildur and Nathaniel. Hildur explained that she was shifting Malcolm and his search party—for lack of a better term—to be directly under her control. That way, if anything happened to Nathaniel or if any Wardens in other countries objected, they would technically hold the authority of Weisshaupt. He didn’t argue with the move, as it made sense. Still, it felt strange that he wouldn’t officially be considered a Fereldan Warden, not exactly. Nathaniel and Hildur would also be going with them for the Landsmeet, since the Warden Commander of Ferelden was still technically the Arl or Arlessa of Amaranthine, something they were seeking to change. One night at the Vigil gave them time to clean up from the Deep Roads, though they weren’t nearly as dirty due to the presence of the taint-free river in Cadash thaig, something they’d taken full advantage of during their stay with the Legion. After obtaining the small enchanted box that held Velanna’s ashes, they were on their way to Denerim. The ground had yet to freeze, and so they were making a stop in the Wending Wood to bury her remains alongside her niece. 

Since she had prior warning, Líadan was able to search for a proper sapling, cedar branch, and oaken staff as they rode toward the city. They made an early camp, the others setting up tents while Nathaniel and Malcolm dug the grave for Velanna. The memorial was short, with Líadan awkwardly reciting the same two verses Malcolm had heard at other funerals. Nathaniel elected to plant the sapling, and the other Wardens wandered to the camp, allowing the man some time alone. As they walked back under the darkening evening sky, Malcolm quietly asked Líadan, “How close do you think the two of them were?” While he was truly curious about the nature of the relationship that had existed between Velanna and Nathaniel, he also wanted to push Líadan out of the strange mood she’d fallen into since they’d found out about the possible connection between Arlathan’s elves and blood magic.

She nudged his shoulder with hers, and then kept them in contact. “Not _that_ close, if that’s what you’re referring to.”

He smothered a soft laugh out of respect for the dead. While he’d never truly seen eye to eye with Velanna, he certainly owed her a lot, and appreciated her sacrifice far more than he could ever properly express. “It stood reason to ask.”

“I suppose. But, come on. She was still _Velanna_. At most, she tolerated Nathaniel better than she did the rest of us, even me. And I think Nathaniel understood her better than she even understood herself. If she could even really be understood. I’m not entirely sold on that idea.”

“You never really got to like her, did you?”

“She was an exile. Her clan voluntarily cast her out, and then kept her out even after the others who’d left with her had been offered the chance to return. Not only that, but before she was exiled, she was their Keeper’s First. That means she was the keeper’s heir. Leaving her clan meant leaving them without someone trained to take the keeper’s place if she had died. And from the meeting we had with her ex-clanmates, we learned that their keeper _did_ die. Her death left them without anyone knowing the ancient lore, without anyone to remember, without anyone to lead. Barely any better off than city elves.”

“There wouldn’t have been any other mages available to step into Velanna’s place as First after she left?”

Líadan sighed. “Keepers are difficult to train and fairly hard to come by. There aren’t many elves born with the ancient gift. Most clans have two mages at the most, sometimes three. Mine was an exception because my magic wasn’t discovered until I’d already become a full hunter, trained in the ways of the _Vir Tanadahl_. That, and Keepers are normally very strong mages, and I’m very much not. If I had been a strong mage, since my clan already had a First with Merrill, I probably would’ve been sent to another clan at the next _Arlathvhen_. I was lucky, in a way.”

“They would have given you away?” He couldn’t keep the shock out of his voice. “I thought family was important to the Dalish. That the clan was.” To this day, he could still remember the sorrowful looks on clan member’s face when Líadan had been forced to leave them.

“It is. But clans need keepers, and not every clan has a child born with the ancient gift with power enough to become a First, and then the next Keeper. Leaders and keepers of the ancient lore are more important than ties to one’s birth clan. I mean, I would’ve still been able to see my parents, in theory. If they were at the _Arlathvhen_ , or in other situations where clans run into one another.” She paused, her look becoming distant. “Then again, Merrill really never got to see her own parents. That’s another thing. My former clan’s First was from another clan, given to us to train when she was only four years old. She saw her parents maybe once since then. I felt no small measure of guilt to find out later that I had the ancient gift, too. That maybe she didn’t have to be sent to us if I’d have shown signs sooner, or been more powerful. We were of an age.”

“So you grew up together?”

“Sort of. She was a little apart from the rest of us as we learned the ways of the hunter and she learned from Marethari about being a keeper. But, yes. We were the only two in the clan who were born in the same year, so we were often paired for things. We fought often. Some would say like sisters, I suppose. The keeper insisted she go with me when I went back to the ruins to find Tamlen and the mirror. I wasn’t really thrilled about that.”

“Let me guess—you thought the keeper was sending her because she thought you missed something important? And you were offended?”

Líadan grumbled something under her breath. Then she said, in what Malcolm thought was the most grudging tone he’d ever heard from her, “Yes.”

“You did seem incredibly cranky when you two walked into the room Alistair, Zevran, and I were in.” He didn’t quite keep the chuckle out of his voice.

“You _had_ just smashed an ancient elven artifact.”

“Technically, Alistair smashed it. Also, we all thought it was Tevinter at the time, so you can’t hold that ‘you destroyed an ancient elven artifact’ thing over my head. That—”

“We should go back there,” she said, interrupting him. “I know we are, but now after seeing that eluvian—if that’s what that was—in Cadash thaig, I want to look at what’s left in the Brecilian Forest. We never really got a close look at it. Well, I didn’t, anyway. Tamlen might have but... we both know how that ended up. Part of me wishes we could figure out what it does. Or used to do, before it tainted people.”

“We did leave it in better condition than we found the other one. I’ve seen bigger grains of sand than the bits of glass we found at the thaig.” He frowned in thought. “So your keeper really didn’t know what the mirror was?”

Líadan reflected Malcolm’s frown. “She said she hadn’t heard of such a thing in any of the lore she’d collected. Then again, I doubt I did a very good job describing it at all. I was a little preoccupied at the time.”

“And _angry_. You were like a person made of pure scowly anger then. And some time after that, too.”

“I was ill!”

“You weren’t sick after your Joining.”

She huffed. “Fine. So I was angry.” Then she peered up at him. “Are you trying to pick a fight?”

“No.” He purposely didn’t turn to look at her as they approached the camp, even as a small, crooked grin crossed his face. “Maybe.” Malcolm stopped just short of the brighter circle of light from the flickering campfire Sten had resolutely tended while the rest of the Wardens were at the gravesite. “You’ve been kind of, I don’t know, _off_ somehow during the past few days. Ever since the thing about the ancient elves and the possibility of blood magic. I was just trying to get you out of that funk. If it takes getting you mad at me, well, I can deal as long as you leave off with the lightning. Besides, it feels like it’s been ages since we’ve had a good rip-roaring argument. What will everyone else think if we’re getting along?”

She quirked an eyebrow. “That we’ve come to our senses? And it hasn’t been ages. It’s been maybe a day at most. Not even. You tried to play Diamondback with Oghren the other night after Hildur challenged the lot of you and Sigrun produced a flask of dwarven ale. Do you even _remember_ coming to bed?”

He shut one eye and made as if struggling to figure out the answer. While the details were fuzzy, he did _mostly_ remember. “Sort of? It was a triple-nug dare. It’s like an honor system. You can’t turn that sort of dare down unless there’s some seriously extenuating circumstances.”

“Do you remember elbowing me in the face?”

That would be one of the more fuzzy bits. He opened his closed eye. “I... remember apologizing profusely. It was probably for that. Would it help if I apologized again?”

“No, not really.” Líadan folded her arms over her chest. “And since when does ‘pretty girl waiting in your bed’ not constitute seriously extenuating circumstances?”

Malcolm was beginning to wonder if she was really still irritated with him about what’d happened or not. It was hard to tell from her tone of voice and the lack of light wasn’t making it any easier to determine the look on her face. “But you were asleep.”

“I wasn’t when I got in there. And I definitely wasn’t after you bashed me in the face.”

He took the risk and placed his hands gently on her shoulders. “I’m sorry? I mean, I’m sorry, no question. And no more taking dares from Hildur, and if she tries to dare me, I’ll just bring up your extenuating circumstances as valid cause to decline said dare.”

The corners of her lips curled upward even as she tried to look irritated. After a moment of fighting the smile, she heaved a resigned sigh and let the smile show. “Well, at least it makes for a good story.”

“Not for _me_. Definitely an ignominious night on my part.”

“Which is what makes it a good story.”

He scowled at her and dropped his arms from her shoulders. “You’re awful. I hate you.”

“Not to butt in or anything,” said Nathaniel, striding from the road to the camp, “but you’re horrible at apologies. ‘I hate you’ should be nowhere in such a thing.” Then without glancing back for a reaction, he continued past them and sat by the fire. Hildur almost immediately fell into conversation with him.

“He has a point.” Líadan tugged at one of his hands. “Come on. We’ve work to do. Those books don’t read themselves.”

Thus began the nightly grind by the campfire, and then inside their tent, aided by candles, a light from Líadan’s staff, or a glowstone, as they continued searching the documents they’d gotten from Cadash thaig. Malcolm supplemented that reading with the nearly-illegible writing in the Architect’s notes, wondering if the Architect was pissed that Malcolm had stolen his journal. Though after reading the Architect’s account of how his second had gleefully manipulated the elves, Velanna in particular, Malcolm gave the tome a disgusted look and practically tossed it aside. It bounced off the taut cloth of the tent’s enclosure and landed in a far corner.

Her back propped against her pack, the noise made Líadan look up from her reading and lift an eyebrow at him in inquiry.

“The Architect is _creepy_ ,” he said in answer to her unspoken question, and then set to finding something more productive to read in his pack. “And his journal is even more creepy.”

“I didn’t realize that was in question. I could’ve told you that.”

He rolled his eyes and she laughed in return before going back to her book. Instead of pulling out one of the Shaperate’s books, he found the small journal of Fiona’s that Alistair had given him. He took it with him back to the bedroll, wanting Fiona’s insights into Morrigan and the ring. What amazed him at first was how impossibly _neat_ his natural mother’s handwriting had been. Yet after studying it for some time, he understood less of it than he had with the Architect’s journal. He simply had no practical understanding of magic, and that’s really all the journal was. Not that it was only about her experiments with Morrigan’s ring, but it had a lot of her thoughts about the Fade and different spells and spell combinations and everything he really knew nothing about. Morrigan would’ve been fascinated by it, he knew that much. He, on the other hand, was merely perplexed. 

“Are you trying to read Elvish or something?” Líadan asked. “You’ve got that super-concentrated but still stymied look on your face.” She marked her place in her book with a bit of spare bowstring she’d gotten from Nathaniel the last time he’d restrung his bow.

He glanced up at her. “No. It’s Fiona’s journal. Alistair found it and gave it to me. It’s...” he trailed off and sighed. “It’s all mage stuff. I don’t understand any of it. I mean, I understand the _words_ , but the concepts are beyond me.”

Amusement brightened her eyes. “How anyone could’ve thought you were a mage is beyond me.” She closed her book, tucked it inside her pack, and scooted over to sit next to him on the bedroll. 

Malcolm held the journal out to her. “You read it. You’ll get more out of it than I would. You’ll definitely be able to understand it far better. If we want to try to understand Morrigan’s ring before the next Age starts, someone other than me will have to read it. And you and Fiona had some sort of bond from what I saw. Maybe reading it will help with what happened. In a way, she was like a mother to you in your new clan of the Wardens.”

“Perhaps she was.” Líadan accepted the journal and started thumbing through its pages. “She reminded me of Keeper Marethari in some ways. Both good and bad, mind you. The keeper was sort of a mother to everyone in the clan. Very smart, a very good mage, protective and caring, but very stubborn. She’d also lived through a lot. Even though she didn’t talk as much about the bad things, you knew she’d experienced them, and that she didn’t want you to have to go through the same thing. Made for a lot of arguments because she tried to save people from themselves instead of letting them learn the hard way.” Her smile became smaller and rueful. “I got a lot of lectures.”

He caught the slight wistfulness in Líadan’s voice and took the chance to bring the subject up again. “Do you miss them?”

“The _lectures_?”

“Your clan.”

Her smile dissipated as she carefully turned one page, and then another while determinedly not looking at him. For a moment, he thought she’d bolt from the tent. Then she said, “I told you. They aren’t my clan anymore. The Grey Wardens are my clan. And you. I made that choice.”

He drew his legs up so he could rest his forearms on his knees. “I thought it wasn’t your choice. That was kind of why you were so mad for so long, from what I gathered.”

“Being tainted and made a Warden wasn’t my choice. Accepting the Wardens and my place in the Order was my choice. Being with a human, being with _you_ , was my choice.”

Malcolm felt a trickle of alarming guilt in his mind at the thought that he was keeping her from her people. He shouldn’t keep her from her people, her family, if she had the ability to return. He wasn’t that important, nor did he want to be that selfish, to keep her from them just to he could stay with her. If it meant her being happy, he would let her go, as much as it would hurt. “Being with me makes it impossible for you to go back?”

Her hand stopped in mid-turn and she finally looked over at him. “What? No. No, it isn’t you. The taint in my blood makes it impossible for me to go back. Eventually, it would become a danger, something the darkspawn could sense more and more as I grew older. Not such a big deal when with other Wardens or with only one or two people. But a darkspawn raid could wipe out the clan from the taint it would leave behind even if the hunters killed them all. And there’s the issue of not being able to have children, and children are the reason for the objection in the first place. So, I don’t think choosing to be with a human when I can’t have children makes much of a difference.” Her gaze dropped back to the journal and she finished turning to the next page.

“Does it bother you? Not being able to have children?” They—and too many other people in his life, really—had talked about him and Alistair having to continue to Theirin line. He’d shrugged off that responsibility to his brother, but he hadn’t really contemplated how Líadan felt about children. There was a chance, however small, that if she chose to be with a non-Warden that she could have children of her own. Alistair’s very life was a testament to that, as Fiona had been tainted when he’d been conceived. Though how she’d carried him to term and how she’d become untainted was still a mystery the Wardens had yet to solve, and probably would remain that way.

Líadan shrugged. “Sometimes. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t. Dalish children are raised with the idea of clan and kind being able to continue to grow. You’re urged to have families if you can. If you choose to be with a human, you’re cutting off another bloodline from continuing the elves, since any children would be human, albeit elf-blooded. In a way, becoming a Warden freed me from any associated guilt I’d have about being with you. The chance of my having children, even with a non-Warden, is so small now that I wouldn’t be helping perpetuate my kind. So, in the end, it doesn’t matter who I’m with. Not that I’d launch into that sort of explanation with any Dalish elf who asks about you.”

He hadn’t thought about that, either, really. Here he was thinking of visiting her former clan and plying them for information on their history, and he hadn’t thought about how her clan would react to them being together. Though, in some way, the history of the Dalish, of the elves as a whole, was also _his_ history, as little elven as he looked. “Would it make a difference if they knew I was elf-blooded?”

“No.” She reached out with her free hand and traced the curved outline of his ear. “Your ears aren’t pointed. That’s what it would come down to, no matter if you were almost completely elf-blooded instead of half. You also look much less elf-blooded than the typical children of elves and humans. Both you and Alistair. So some might not even believe you if you chose to claim it.”

“I think that’s just the line of Calenhad at work. Cailan looked nothing like his mother, except for her eyes. Apparently we’re all doomed to have the noses, the height, the fair hair, and the tendency to talk far too much.”

Líadan started laughing. “I can’t even imagine...” she trailed off into more giggles, her hand moving to cover her mouth in a futile attempt to stifle them.

“What? Can’t imagine what?”

She dropped the journal to clutch at her side in an attempt to regain control of her breathing. “I just had a thought. If you had gone through with Morrigan’s ritual then her child would’ve had Theirin genes. She would have had a very _chatty_ child. Imagining her with a child who babbles as much as you and Alistair do is hilarious, in my mind.” And then the giggles promptly returned. 

He wasn’t nearly as amused as she was, not at first, but the problem was that Líadanhad a laugh that was the infectious type. Once she got to laughing like she was now, it didn’t take long for others to follow. Already, his own laughter rumbled in his chest as he did his best to remain serious and even retrieve the Architect’s journal from the corner. But it didn’t work, and soon enough, he was laughing as much as she was. 

“Hey, if you’re laughing that hard, you’re doing it wrong,” said Anders from outside the tent.

“Or doing it very _right_ ,” Sigrun said. “But you two need to keep it down. It’s hard to listen for inept bandits with all the giggling.”

“Fine,” said Malcolm. “I’ll go back to reading the creepy notes of the Architect.”

Anders chuckled. “You’ll give yourself nightmares, reading that sort of thing before bed.”

“What, you mean nightmares of darkspawn? Really? Andraste’s flaming sword, how would I cope? Oh, wait. I just would, since I’m, you know, a _Grey Warden_.”

“Fine, ignore my advice. We’ll see who’s crying in the morning.” Footsteps moved away from the tent and Malcolm assumed it was Anders walking back to the fire.

Journal in hand, he settled back next to a calmed Líadan, who’d returned to a study of Fiona’s little book. They fell asleep reading in the pale light of the glowstone. When he woke up, he couldn’t explain why. The tent was silent and the only noise he heard was the occasional pop from the fire and Líadan’s—no, he couldn’t hear her breathing. He looked over in the scant light as his eyes adjusted and he saw that her eyes were open and blinking. Yet her body was rigid against his and he sat up quickly, the Architect’s journal sliding off his chest and onto the ground.  He placed a gentle hand on Líadan’s shoulder, not wanting to scare her. She jumped slightly at his touch before relaxing and rolling closer to him. “What’s wrong?” he asked, wondering if it was a normal darkspawn nightmare, or perhaps one of the nastier variants that involved broodmothers. Those were the ones that tended to provoke a cold sweat, and from what he could feel, she hadn’t been sweating in her sleep.

“There was a dragon,” she said. 

He went still. “An arch—”

“No. There were several. A whole bunch of them flying around. Then there were huge chasms opening up in the ground and the dragons all fell from the sky. They disappeared into them and they closed up after the dragons had fallen. There was...” Her voice faltered, and Malcolm waited for her to continue. 

The cold tendrils of fear had already spread to his limbs at hearing the first details of Líadan’s dream and how similar they were to all the ones he’d been having. He couldn’t ask any questions now, not until she was done explaining. His questions would be too leading and they had to know if the details were truly in her dream or not. He reached over and pulled her to him, against his chest, where he could feel the heat from her body through the thin linen of his shirt. “Take as long as you need.” Then, with his arms wrapped around her, he pressed his cheek against her hair and waited patiently for her to gather her thoughts.

“There was another dragon that was left behind. And it called, one of the most regretful, forlorn sounds I’ve ever heard, and circled around and around where those holes had closed up. Then it was like it realized I could see it and it flew right for me. At the last second, it turned into a crow and it opened its beak, but instead of a crow calling it was a dragon’s roar. That’s when I woke up. And when I did, I just couldn’t move.”

“It sounds like the nightmares and dreams I’ve been having. A bit like the experience I had in the Fade, during the Harrowing. Wynne even saw part of that.”

Líadan took a shuddering breath and released it. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was _Asha’belannar_ , somehow tracking us in the Beyond.”

“That is... really frightening to contemplate.” 

“Why do you think I couldn’t move when I woke up?”

He squeezed his arms tighter for a second, and then kissed the top of her head. “We _really_ need to find Morrigan. If Flemeth is really alive, is really tracking us in the Fade, she must be up to something very not good. And I think Morrigan is the only person who will know how she can be stopped.”

“I’m really starting to believe that’s what the Old God child is for, or is a part of,” said Líadan. “That maybe Morrigan hasn’t doomed us all, but is saving us.” Then she rested her head on his arm near where she held it. “There’s a lot of stuff going on that we just don’t know enough about. We need to find out. If we don’t, I think we’re all in a lot more danger than we thought.”

Sleep was a long time in coming.

In the morning when they exited the tent, a crow called from a bare branch above the campsite. As they looked up at it, the bird gazed imperiously down at them, almost smug in its avian countenance. Even though other Wardens were in the process of eating breakfast or breaking down the small camp, the crow kept its attention on Malcolm and Líadan.

“That’s it,” said Líadan. “Nathaniel, where’s your bow? Give it to me. I’m killing that sodding bird. I hate crows.” She squinted at it. “Or is that a raven?”

Nathaniel shot a questioning look at the elf before glancing up at the bird. “Crow.” Then he looked at Líadan. “Can you even use a bow?”

Sigrun looked from Líadan to the bird and back again. “Do you even need a bow? You’re a mage. Couldn’t you just set it on fire or something?”

“Are we really discussing how Líadan is going to murder an innocent crow?” asked Anders.

“Shale would approve,” said Sten.

Anders rolled his eyes. “Shale is a _golem_.”

“She is a highly intelligent being. Far more intelligent than you, mage.”

Hildur sighed. “Wardens, there will be no unnecessary bird killing this morning.”

“It’s _far_ from unnecessary,” said Líadan. “I’d hit it with a spell, but it’s small and my aim is far better with a bow than with magic.” Without looking, she extended a hand toward Nathaniel. “Now, please lend me your bow and one arrow.”

Nathaniel sighed as much as Hildur had, but handed over the requested items.

“Oh, sure,” said Malcolm. “You’ll use a bow when you want to kill a crow, but you won’t use one I offer to keep you out of a fight when you’re injured. I see how it is.”

She didn’t spare a glance in his direction. “Nathaniel, two arrows, please. The second one is for Malcolm.”

“There will be no unnecessary killing of Wardens, either,” said Hildur.

“I didn’t say I was going to kill him.” Líadan nocked the arrow Nathaniel had given her and aimed it at the perched bird. The crow blinked, tilted its head to the side, and seemed to take in the elf and the threat she posed. Then the crow called to them once more and, like the other crows Malcolm had seen in recent months, flew in a circle above them. Líadan tracked it for a moment before loosing the arrow. It shot through the air and clipped the crow’s tail, separating one of the feathers. The crow squawked in outrage before it sped away into the sky. The elf swore vehemently under her breath. “Rusty. I was rusty. I can’t believe I missed. If Andruil had seen me she would have hanged her head in shame. I _missed_. I never miss.”

“You wouldn’t have been rusty if you’d used the bow earlier, when I asked you to on the way back to Highever,” said Malcolm.

Líadan rounded on him. “I swear by the Creators, if I didn’t love you, I would have killed you _ages_ ago.”

Sigrun looked triumphantly at Anders. “Pay up. That’s one sovereign for the public declaration and fifty silvers on top of it for being in the middle of an argument.”

“I think technically she was in an argument with that crow and not him,” Anders replied with a sigh. Yet he was already digging into the coinpurse at his belt as he groused. “Fine. You win this one.”

When Líadan turned and focused her still readily apparent ire on Sigrun and Anders, Malcolm silently thanked the Maker and Andraste for his friends being, for once, more blatantly stupid than he was. As she grumbled and scowled at the two of them, Nathaniel’s bow still tightly gripped in her left hand, Malcolm went about packing up their belongings and striking their tent. He finished to find that she was speaking to Hildur in low tones on a much more serious matter, as he caught the word ‘dragon’ a couple of times. _It could be worse_ , he reminded himself. _It could be ‘archdemon’ instead_. Not wanting to interrupt, he wandered over to where the crow’s feather had dropped, picked it up, and tucked it into the pouch on his belt. 

By the time the Wardens got underway to Denerim, Líadan’s anger at Malcolm had entirely faded, though she did still fire a few glares in Anders and Sigrun’s direction. When they stopped their easy ride to eat a quick lunch, Malcolm sidled up to her. He took her hand, lifting it palm up, and then deposited the crow’s feather on it. “The prize from your hunt this morning,” he said in explanation, a smile quirking his lips.

“I still can’t believe I missed,” she said, glaring down at the offending feather.

“And you officially aren’t allowed to tease me about my little freak out with the crow at the cliffs.”

“I haven’t teased you about that for weeks.”

“I just wanted to make it clear.” He let the smile fade as concern worked its way into his mind. “So why did you get so mad at the crow?”

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I’m starting to think that those crows aren’t just crows.”

“Really?”

“They’re just too... they aren’t acting like normal birds. I mean, I could be imagining it, especially after that nightmare, but I doubt it. Probably not Morrigan at this point, since I don’t think shapechanging would be that safe this far along. But I wouldn’t discount Flemeth. Not anymore.” Her eyes moved to look north, toward where they’d camped overnight and they’d last seen the crow. Then her fingers closed carefully over the feather before pocketing it. “Not if she’s truly _Asha’belannar_.”


	63. Chapter 63

**Chapter 63**

“In the days after the rising of Zazikel, the dark ones covered every corner of the land. The archdemon drove all the nations of the world before him, shemlen and elvhen alike.

In the far north, where the hills wander the plains and the earth is eternally baked beneath the uncaring sun, the lands which the shemlen call Anderfels, a clan of our people lives, struggling to survive the Blight.

Iloren was their keeper. A hunter in his younger days, crafty as any wolf, he led his people always just ahead of the darkspawn who chased them. But the old hunter knew that even halla cannot run forever. They must turn and fight, or be run down.

At the foot of the Merdaine, the darkspawn cornered Illoren’s clan. That night, the moon was strangled by the clouds, the earth concealed by a dread mist that rose out of nowhere, so that the elvhen could not tell up from down. In the confusion, the darkspawn attacked.

But Iloren had prepared for them. All around the camp, the hunters had strewn dry grass, brush and brambles. When the sound of rustling footfalls began, Iloren and the other hahren called upon the old magic. They struck out with lightning, and though the bolts missed the darkspawn, they hit their targets all the same. The sea of kindling lit, and not one of the dark creatures made it through the fire to reach Iloren’s clan.”

—from _The Tale of Iloren_ , as written by Zathrian, keeper of the Ra’asiel clan of the Dalish

**Morrigan**

****The crow tilted its head to the side, regarding Morrigan with rapt curiosity. The witch sighed, jealous of its ability to fly. It had been over a month since she’d last shapeshifted, unwilling to risk harm to the unborn children she carried. It rankled, however, and she felt trapped in her own body, a feeling she’d not experienced before. She longed for the free runs through the forest and the flights through the clear sky. Her life was one as a human, she knew and even embraced that fact, but there was something to be said about the freedom granted with the ability to shapeshift. As such, she missed it. But chance to engage in such activities again was a long time away, and it was better she not dwell on the matter. “Begone.” Her hand waved half-heartedly, and the bird remained determinedly on the ground near her. She frowned at it, double-checking to make sure its eyes were the glittering black of a normal crow, and not the golden eyes of Flemeth. No, just an ordinary crow. “Begone, foul fiend,” Morrigan said again, and was reminded suddenly of Shale, the golem with a strong, murderous prejudice against flying creatures.

Shale would not fail to see the irony in her situation. Yet the memory was fond and warm, the comforting blanket of a time that had been easier, even in the face of a Blight. Her work and her ultimate task had been a far-away thing, minuscule compared to importance of daily survival. Her gaze moved dismissively from the bird and to the nearly forgotten book resting in her lap—a lap that was quickly becoming obscured by the proof of her successfully accomplished task.

 ****“I have something that might be of interest to you,” came Lanaya’s soft voice as she approached Morrigan’s campfire.

Morrigan looked up from the closed grimoire to see the young keeper bearing an old, worn book. The witch motioned for the elf to sit down, and then set aside the book she’d held. “What have you brought?” 

Lanaya handed the leather-bound tome to Morrigan. “It is an ancient book the Calliel had guarded since the days of Arlathan. I have been searching through the relics their keepers had held, to see if they had known or possessed anything of elven history that I did not. And I found this book.” The keeper dropped onto the grass near the fire, tucking her legs under her body. “It has knowledge I’d not known about. I don’t think even Zathrian knew, and he knew far more than any keeper alive today.”

“What is it?” Morrigan’s fingers gently traced the embossed Elvish word on the front of the volume. Age practically radiated from the tome, an age possessing knowledge, and in that knowledge, power. Her ability to read Elvish, which had been passing on rudimentary when she’d joined the Ra’asiel, had become fluent. Yet she did not recognize the word on the front of the book, and that bothered her. “What is this word?”

“Eluvian,” said Lanaya. “It took some cross-referencing, but I’ve finally determined that it means ‘seeing-glass.’ Though I’m not sure it helps that much, without context.”

Morrigan arched an eyebrow. “And have you this context?”

“I do. As you know, the ancient elves had a kingdom that stretched across all of Thedas. Arlathan was the largest and most important city, but it wasn’t the only city. Each of these cities, including Arlathan, had an eluvian. From what I could gather, they used them to communicate across the entire kingdom, though I am not sure how. And I’m also not sure if it was _just_ communication. Some of the words are so old that their complete meaning has been lost. You might know some of them, from what _Asha’belannar_ taught you. Though how she knows of Elven history is—”

“Do not speak of her.” Morrigan’s words came out more sharply than she’d intended, because fear had driven them. The dreams as of late had become more intense, fraught with more danger, and the sense of being hunted had grown exponentially. Each time the witch saw forms that Flemeth could take while out in the forest, a thrill of fear went through her as she sought out the creature’s eyes to confirm whether or not she would die. Thus far, each time had yielded nothing but the eyes of beasts, yet she knew the safety would not last. Flemeth prowled the Fade now, Morrigan was certain. And if she was not already prowling Thedas for her, she would be soon. As each day passed, Morrigan knew she became weaker as the unborn grew. But avoiding even speaking of Flemeth made her mother more powerful, and herself impossibly weaker. In addition, there was no need to be nasty with those who helped shelter her, especially those whom she tentatively could name as a friend. She sighed and forced herself to acknowledge the slightly hurt look in Lanaya’s eyes. “I... apologize for my sharpness.”

The injury faded from Lanaya’s expression, replaced by understanding. “You fear her return.” 

Though it had not been a question, Morrigan answered with a nod. “I fear that she has already returned. I fear that she hounds me, awake and asleep. I fear that she will find me and what will happen if she does.”

“Is _Asha’belannar_ truly your mother? In Ferelden, we often heard the Chasind legends that said the Witches of the Wild stole children.”

“And ate them? That was also part of the legends. I have heard them, too.” Morrigan felt a smile curling her lips at the ridiculousness of the idea. “I assume you’re asking if Flemeth herself gave birth to me?” At Lanaya’s nod, Morrigan continued, “Truly, I do not know. I once asked Flemeth that very question, and she merely laughed at me.” A twinge of hurt, an echo of the same hurt she’d suffered as a child, listening to her mother laugh once more at a question of hers, lanced through her chest. Only now, the hurt came with a sense of loss, of wondering what might have been, had Flemeth been more the nurturing sort of mother. What might have become of the little girl with the beautiful, golden mirror that Flemeth had smashed upon the ground to teach her a lesson? A good lesson, she had to admit, or she would not be alive this day. Nor would she be able to stand against Flemeth had Flemeth herself not raised her to be who she was. Yet she wondered, nonetheless, of what might have been if other realities did not have to be, if fantasy were to replace reality. But fantasy had no place in her life, not if she wished to remain alive. 

Not if she wished to end the threat that Flemeth presented. Right now she did not possess the ability to strike at her enemy, nor would she have the ability for quite some time. She would have to delay it, to continue to deny Flemeth the chance to confront her. Though Morrigan had been convinced, at least during the Blight, of the information Flemeth’s grimoire presented, she no longer believed it. Obviously, it had been a ruse, and Flemeth extended her life through no means like she’d presented in the text. It had been a fabrication meant to fool Morrigan into whatever path Flemeth wanted her to take. Even Morrigan’s fight against her mother was Flemeth’s own doing, it seemed. In the struggle of it all, the question of her being Flemeth’s blood began to grow smaller and smaller in importance. 

And yet.

She still wondered, as it was only natural. Not only if Flemeth was truly her natural mother, but what Flemeth was, exactly. Morrigan understood that though she’d estimated Flemeth’s power to be more than anything else she’d ever encountered, her estimate still had not been high enough. With that power came a great range of influence, one that covered all of Thedas, as if the world were a mere plaything to her. Which, perhaps, was what it was, Morrigan included. To a woman for whom the world was a toy, a pretty bauble such as the mirror held no importance. But to that girl, it had been much more. Except that girl no longer existed, and there was no point in dwelling on it any longer. She looked over at Lanaya. “What does this mirror look like?”

Lanaya blinked at the sudden change of subject, but showed no other reaction. Instead, she reached over and opened the book to a page with an illustration. “Here. I believe this is it.”

A sketch made in bold strokes showed a mirror—or something similar—with a pointed arch at the top. Yet where there would be glass, there seemed to be almost a liquid, by the looks of it. Like a few drops of rain had fallen into a pond, there were some circular ripples showing on the surface. While Morrigan supposed such a feat could be accomplished by an artisan with glass, somehow it seemed more believable, at least in this context, that these mirrors held glass-like substance that was no simple glass. “And they used these to communicate?”

“I think. At least, that’s what I’ve been able to derive from the text so far. But something about it looks more... involved, I guess you could say. I’m not sure if they were for only talking, or if they could use them to transport items or people. I just don’t know. If I had one to study, perhaps we could unlock its secrets more quickly, but I’ll have to do with translating this dialect.” The young keeper sat back, a frown twisting at her mouth. “Our people have lost so much of our history. To imagine that two people could speak to each other though they stood on opposite sides of Thedas is something I would’ve have dared. Or perhaps they even could move from one city to another in the blink of an eye through the use of these things. Maybe they cut into the Beyond, maybe they were even separate from the Beyond. But, like so many things, the secrets are lost, as are the objects.”

As Morrigan studied the drawing, her memory placed other items around the bare mirror—two statues in the Tevinter style, as if they were holding up the mirror. Something of this nature had been described to her once by a young elf who had encountered such a thing. The encounter had led to the death of the elf’s friend, and nearly the elf herself. Becoming a Grey Warden had saved Líadan’s life after Malcolm, Alistair, and Zevran had smashed the item that had caused the elf to become ill with the taint. Líadan had told her the story, long ago, of what had happened in that ruin and what had been left behind. At the time, smashing the object had seemed like a good idea. In retrospect, that action might well have cut off her only avenue of escape. Perhaps something could be salvaged. “It looks familiar,” she said. “It matches a description once given to me by a fri—someone. It is similar to what she encountered.” She could not bring herself to outwardly name Líadan a friend. Not because she didn’t think it on her part, but because she was almost certain it was no longer so on Líadan’s part, and with good reason.

If Lanaya caught the pause, she did not show it. “You are speaking of what happened to the Dalish Grey Warden? My people did not know how the Dalish woman became a Warden until the Calliel had told us the story. The woman who told us, Ariane, she said that two of Mahariel’s young hunters encountered a strange mirror in some ruins. One disappeared. The other became deathly ill. They never found the one—the other was taken away by the Grey Wardens to be cured, but was lost to the clan.”

“‘Tis Líadan that story speaks of, yes, and to whom I refer. She became a Grey Warden. Rather reluctantly, I might add. The illness that would have killed Líadan did kill the other elf. He was tainted, and it caused him to attack a member of the party I traveled with during the Blight. He died in the attempt. A far better death than the one the taint would have granted him, that is certain.”

“So I have heard of taint-related deaths.” Some of the excitement faded from Lanaya’s expression, but it did not entirely wane. “Were you there, at the ruins? Did you see the mirror?”

“I did not. It was tainted and the source of the taint that killed that elf and almost killed Líadan. The Wardens in my party went back and destroyed it before leaving the Brecilian Forest. I believe that—” Morrigan stopped talking and her head snapped around to look into the trees just beyond her small campsite at the edge of the Dalish camp. “Whoever you are, show yourself. Now.” She raised a hand, purple crackling energy already hovering over her palm. At least it wasn’t Flemeth. That was something, some _one_ , whose presence she was able to _feel_. But she wasn’t going to be caught defenseless, no matter who it was out there.

Across from her, Lanaya was on her feet and peering into the trees, magic of her own snapping around her fingers. “Come out of the forest.” Then the edge of anger disappeared from the keeper’s tone, and her mouth even found a half smile. “If you were caught out by a mage, you are not a very good hunter.”

A sigh sounded from the trees, and then a young, female elf emerged. 

Morrigan allowed the magic to dissipate from her palm and folded her arms across her chest. “Explain yourself.” She recognized this woman from around the camp as one of the Calliel. Morrigan had noticed her before because the _vallaslin_ she possessed was the same as Líadan’s, and her auburn hair only a shade lighter than the other elf’s. When she’d first caught sight of the woman, she’d thought for a moment that it _was_ her friend. A second glance had told her that it wasn’t. The eyes were different, the hair far too long, as well as being lighter. Yet, for a moment, Morrigan had thought she would be able to share her near-sister’s company again, even if it were for Líadan to yell. Which, now that she thought about it, was normal for her. 

“I was returning from a hunt,” the Dalish woman said. “And—”

Lanaya sighed, as if tortured by the other elf’s lack of manners, and then motioned to the hunter. “Morrigan, this is Ariane. She is the Calliel’s best hunter. Ariane, this is Morrigan, a guest of the Ra’asiel and daughter to _Asha’belannar_.”

Ariane inclined her head. “ _Aneth ara_.” 

Morrigan didn’t relax her posture. “You may call me Morrigan, once you explain yourself.” She also made a mental note to speak with Lanaya in private about introducing her as Flemeth’s daughter. She was herself and had her own identity, one that did not need to be tied to Flemeth’s current existence. In fact, she would far prefer to keep her existence and Flemeth’s as separated as possible, for as long as possible. 

Ariane made no indication of catching Morrigan’s dig. “As I was saying, I was returning from a hunt when I heard part of your conversation about the Dalish Grey Warden from the Mahariel, and then the bit about the mirror.”

“Ah, yes.” Lanaya nodded. “You were the one who told me the story.”

“Do you have any other information about the mirror?” Morrigan asked. “For instance, do you know where it ended up?” In the back of her mind, Morrigan heard Malcolm’s answer to that question: _“In pieces.”_ She certainly did not miss _that_ sort of commentary. “If it is still in Ferelden, it will need to be retrieved, studied, perhaps even repaired.” Calculations began running through her head as she tried to determine how long it would take to travel there, if it would be safe to attempt it, if she would even be able to make it considering her physical condition. Yet the possible reward for success in gaining and repairing the mirror were most likely worth the risk in the attempt.

“That’s what I wanted to mention to you,” said Ariane. “The mirror isn’t in the Brecilian Forest any longer. The Mahariel took it with them when they left Ferelden for Sundermount.”

That solved the problem of traveling to Ferelden. Sundermount was far closer. However, it did add an element of awkwardness to obtaining and fixing the mirror, if another clan had already claimed possession of it. No matter. It could be worked around. Shattering it would have disconnected it from wherever its taint was coming from, all that would be left was a matter of cleansing the remaining taint. She wasn’t sure how it could be done, but Blighted lands were able to become untainted after some time. There had to be a way of discovering how that came to be and how to accelerate the process.

“Marethari must have wanted to study it,” Lanaya said. “I’m glad she took the opportunity that otherwise might have been lost.”

Morrigan turned to the keeper. “I must study it myself.”

“I would like to see it as well.” Lanaya paused for a moment, contemplating the forest around them. “The clan must move soon anyway. The hunters tell me that their prey has started to grow slim. We can go south to Sundermount before heading north to the Arlathan Forest.” She nodded once to herself, and then looked at Ariane. “Tell the hunters for me—we are to pack up and make ready for our departure in two days.”

In a testament to the Dalish ability to travel effectively as a group, the clan had pulled up stakes and were moving for Sundermount two mornings later. They mostly traveled through the forest where they could, their columns and aravels obscured from prying eyes by the fast-withering foliage of autumn. Main roads were entirely avoided, and side roads used only in the most dire of circumstances. Now unable to shapeshift safely and travel as a wolf, Morrigan was left to ride with Lanaya on her aravel, the keeper leaving the control of the halla to another clan member. From what was explained to Morrigan, some of the clan were far better with the animals than others, much like it was between horses and humans. However, they were quick to point out, the halla were far more free-spirited and less controlled than horses. Morrigan listened politely, but didn’t much care either way. _Her_ care was that she was relegated to the less-active role of a rider because of a weakness of her own. If she had not chosen to bring both children to term, she would not already be this reliant on other means of transport.

No. It was wrong to blame her weakness on that. Either way, by this time in the pregnancy, she would have had to avoid shapeshifting. And given the choice between riding a halla or riding an aravel pulled by halla, she preferred the aravel. At the very least, it gave her more time to study the tome Lanaya had given her, and to prepare for what was to come.

“I have a question,” Lanaya said to her four days out from the Sedim Forest.

Morrigan marked her place in the book and peered over at the keeper. “You have many. It is a particular quality of yours. Ask, and I shall endeavor to answer.”

The lower-hanging branches of the hemlock trees brushed over the smooth wood of the aravel. Morrigan could hear the slight scraping of the needles, as well as the creaking of the aravel’s wheels as she waited for Lanaya to speak. Finally, the young keeper looked up from her contemplation of her fingers and asked, “Are you a blood mage?”

The question made Morrigan laugh, but not derisively. “No. But I am not one for reasons of my own, not because of what false vitriol the human Chantry casts upon the skill. What makes you ask?”

“Scouts had brought in rumors from the templars who seek you. I was curious.”

“Ah. The Chantry believes almost every apostate must be a blood mage because the mage has chosen not to live by their guidelines or even under their thumb. They call them maleficar, using a line from their Chant. And yet, even as they bandy about that term, I do not think they know the true definition of the word. One need not be a blood mage to be a maleficar. Further, a blood mage is not automatically a maleficar.”

Lanaya raised an eyebrow. “Given the way you phrased your answer, it seems you would have had the opportunity to learn blood magic if you had been so inclined. What reasons do you have for refusing those lessons? I would think blood magic would be another source of greater power, something I know that you seek.”

Morrigan wondered if the keeper had ideas of practicing blood magic herself, or already did, given that her mentor Zathrian had clearly been a blood mage. “Yes, it would be a source of power, but at a greater cost.” As Morrigan outlined her reasons for not engaging in blood magic, she was reminded of this same conversation she’d had with Malcolm on the shores of Lake Calenhad. She’d found great amusement in realizing they’d had the discussion practically in the shadow of the Circle Tower. “In the end,” she said, drawing to a conclusion, “I do not approve of having to either weaken oneself or relying on others in order to fuel one’s magic. But this is a personal choice of my own and I have no feeling one way or the other about what another mage might choose. Though I would object should a weak-minded mage choose to resort to blood magic rather than bolster their basic skills. Blood magic is not a shortcut, nor should it be employed as such. That, I believe, is what leads to abominations. If they haven’t the will to perform better magic in the first place, then they should not attempt to play with power beyond their measure. In the hands of a stronger mage, blood magic can be a useful tool. But ‘tis not a tool that I would ever willingly employ for myself.”

“That is a position I’d not heard before. Is it one that _Asha’belannar_ taught you?”

The witch chuckled again. “No. It is a position of my own. It was Flemeth who offered to teach me blood magic in the first place, were I so inclined.”

“Did you ever see Flemeth use blood magic?”

“Not that I am aware. She had abilities enough where she was never in a position to need it, as far as I ever witnessed.”

Lanaya nodded. “I had seen Zathrian use it many times.”

“And what of you?”

“His summoning of the spirit of the forest was part of a tradition long held and hidden among the Dalish, something that is rarely, if ever, spoken of, even between clans. But it was how the Arlathan elves had fought off the Tevinters so long in the face of their sheer numbers. They resorted to the same type of summoning the Tevinters used against them, but they waited too long to do so. They waited until after Arlathan had been lost. Where we’re going is where the last battle took place.”

“You did not answer my question.” Morrigan filed away that bit of information about Sundermount to discuss in the future.

Lanaya gave her a sheepish smile. “I possess the knowledge, but I have not yet chosen to use it.”

“Should you make that choice, I do not think you would become an abomination. You are strong enough with your skills to be able to use it without great risk. There would be risk, of course, because there always is. But it is far better to enter the realm of blood magic with confident strides and one’s eyes wide open rather than flee into it blindly and with great fear. You should—”

A shout from Ariane interrupted Morrigan’s words. “Look!”

“What is that?” asked another hunter.

Morrigan and Lanaya first looked at the hunter, and then upward to where the woman pointed. There, high above them and flying north, they saw the silhouette of a high dragon against the blue through the branches of the trees. The dragon maintained its straight course to the north, not pausing to circle them or giving any indication that it had seen the Dalish clan. “That,” said Morrigan, “is confirmation.”

“It looked like a high dragon to me,” said Ariane once the dragon had faded from view.

“Were it only a mere high dragon, I would feel much better.” Morrigan reluctantly drew her eyes away from the clear sky and glanced down at Ariane. “High dragons, you can kill, even if it does take some effort. But what you just saw cannot be killed. Not in any way I know.”

“So the dragon—” Lanaya started to say.

“‘Twas my mother, in fact,” Morrigan finished saying for her. “I am most certain.”

Ariane frowned in the direction where the high dragon had gone. “I don’t like this.”

“Neither do I. ‘Tis not your life she seeks. Nor mine. Not any longer.” Her hand moved to splay protectively over her abdomen. “It is my child’s.”

“She will not have him,” said Ariane.

Morrigan decided that she rather liked the young hunter. What she didn’t like, however, was confirmation that Flemeth was alive and well and _up to something_. That, she did not like, and it unnerved her to be at Flemeth’s mercy once again. The feeling remained as they entered the Vimmark Mountains and descended to the valley floor of the pass toward Sundermount and the coast. In addition to the growing unease over Flemeth’s reappearance, Morrigan felt practically _itchy_ over the state of the Veil the closer they got to Sundermount. If she had doubted the veracity of Lanaya’s claims of horrors unleashed on the mountain and in this area by both sides of an ancient war, she had no reason to any longer. By the time they reached the base of Sundermount, Morrigan wondered if a simple sneeze by an incompetent mage could possibly sunder the Veil due to how thin it was. Along with the parchment-thin Veil, she felt traces of Flemeth lingering in the air and rocks and everywhere around her. This, she knew without a doubt, was where the dragon had originated. Where _Flemeth_ had come from, somehow, and then soared into the sky to fly above them.

And, at any time, Flemeth might choose to return. The possibility made Morrigan nervous and very eager to be free of this place. They would have to conduct their business quickly, meet with this other clan’s keeper, and then leave with all due haste. Lanaya agreed with Morrigan’s assessment. While the combined Ra’asiel and Calliel made a temporary camp in another part of the forest, Morrigan and Lanaya, with a curious Ariane accompanying them, paid a visit to the Mahariel in order to speak with their keeper. When they entered the camp of the Mahariel clan, Morrigan noticed that something felt odd, even aside from the thinned Veil and the lingering traces of Flemeth. 

“They have no halla,” said Ariane.

That was it. The animals, usually ubiquitous when it came to the Dalish, were nowhere to be found, nor did she hear any of their strange bleating. For a moment she assumed that the Mahariel clan must have left the animals behind in Ferelden, but there were no horses, either, and yet they still had their aravels. So they must have reached Sundermount with them, only to lose them afterward. Very strange, since the Dalish with their halla were like Fereldans with their mabari. One simply did not exist without the other, not without something being very wrong.

“Were they without halla when you saw them last?” Lanaya asked the hunter.

“No. They had their halla then. I wonder what happened.”

“As do I.” Lanaya’s expression darkened. “They should have sent messengers to other clans and requested help and more halla. They cannot allow themselves to be stranded here, so close to a large, human city. The Chantry will eventually come after their keeper.”

“That is why the Dalish move so often?” Morrigan asked. “To protect your mages?”

“One reason among many,” said Ariane. “But, yes. There aren’t many born with the ancient gift. Humans throw that talent away far too readily. They dismiss it and waste it when it should be nurtured and celebrated.”

Morrigan decided she liked Ariane even more. Like many Dalish elves she’d met, the young woman had refreshing views on magic and its use that was rarely found amongst humans. Had she a choice to remain, she would have chosen to stay with these people if she could. She knew that son she would bear who would possess Urthemiel’s soul would be a mage. As for the other, she couldn’t be sure. Even with strong magic from both lines, there was no telling if the other child would become a mage. Most likely he would, but one never knew, especially with Lanaya’s prediction of him becoming a king. Humans certainly wouldn’t accept a mage being a monarch anytime in the next Age. So perhaps the other child would not have the gift. And if he were to remain on Thedas with his father, it would very likely be a good thing that he be born without the ability to draw on power from the Fade.

Sentries posted at the main entrance to the camp greeted Lanaya and Ariane warmly while casting curious looks at Morrigan. One seemed to recognize her, her face clouding in confusion, and then an eyebrow lifting in recognition before trotting off, presumably to tell someone. The younger sentry motioned toward the center of the camp after Lanaya inquired about Marethari, and the trio continued further into the encampment. The old keeper—though she still had that peculiarly elven timeless look to her—stood by a large bonfire often found in elven camps. As the small group approached, she remained placid as she raised her eyes to them. Yet there was a hint of a troubled thought in the corners of the keeper’s forest green eyes, one that Morrigan had seen long ago when her group had taken Líadan from them during the Blight. Apparently the thoughts had never abandoned Marethari, just as they had never quite abandoned Líadan. 

Marethari slightly bowed her head in greeting. “ _Andaran atish’an_ , Lanaya. Or, as I understand it, you are Keeper Lanaya now, having succeeded Zathrian’s place with the Ra’asiel.” 

Lanaya nodded, repeating the words of the formal elven greeting. “Yes. Zathrian perished some months ago after our clan was attacked by werewolves.” Holding back a laugh, Morrigan marveled at how the woman had avoided explicitly stating the conditions of Zathrian’s less-than-illustrious demise. Lanaya motioned toward the other elf with them. “This is Ariane, of the Calliel. Her clan has joined with ours after the death of their keeper in Ferelden.”

The older keeper’s mouth turned into a frown at the news. “What of their First, Velanna? Ilshae had been training her for some time. And if I recall, the First had a sister, Seranni, who also possessed the gift and was trained. What of them?”

“Seranni was killed by the darkspawn,” said Ariane, her brows dropping into a scowl. “And Velanna was exiled after an argument with Keeper Ilshae over actions we would take against the shemlen in the nearby village who were trying to chase us out of the Wending Wood.”

“That is... unfortunate.” Marethari’s frown became deeper at Ariane’s words. “Velanna was always very headstrong, but I had not thought she would go so far.”

“None of us did, Keeper.” Ariane blinked and looked up at Sundermount, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. 

Marethari turned to Morrigan. “And what has brought you back to my clan, daughter of _Asha’belannar_?” 

“The same thing that brought me to your clan in the first place—a mysterious mirror discovered in ancient ruins.” Morrigan crossed her arms, already sensing resistance from Marethari, and readying herself for an argument. “We have come across information that might explain what the mirror truly is. I was going to return to Ferelden to fetch what was left of it, but I was told your clan brought it with you when you departed.”

“Not my clan,” said Marethari. “My First. She wanted to repair it. She thought it would help, but there was nothing to be done. It would only continue to take members of our clan away as it did with Tamlen and Líadan.”

Morrigan frowned. “Your Líadan is alive and well in Ferelden, the last I heard.”

Marethari gave her a weary, knowing smile. “But she is not with her clan, is she, _da’len_?”

The witch bristled at the implication of the keeper’s words. She knew what _da’len_ meant, and being called one reminded her far too much of Flemeth. “I am no child and I would prefer that you not refer to me as such.”

“Ah, but you are all children to me, young as you are. We can stand here and argue the details or I can tell you all that I know about the mirror—it is gone.”

“Gone?” asked Lanaya. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly that. It is gone. It seems keepers arguing with their firsts has become an epidemic in Thedas, as Merrill has done the same. She and I argued. In the end, she chose another path.”

“Chose another path?” Morrigan asked, not liking where the conversation was headed.

“She wished to repair the mirror, even after I advised her not to. I asked for her not to attempt fixing the mirror near the clan, and she chose exile in order to continue her work. She left. I do not know where she has gone.”

“It _is_ an epidemic,” said Ariane, bitterness nearly making her spit out the words.

“Unlike your Velanna, Merrill’s exile is voluntary. Whenever she decides to give up her ultimately useless path, she will be welcome to return.”

“I fail to see what is so bad about trying to put the mirror back together,” said Morrigan. “Since your First is not dead from the taint, I assume the taint dissipated from the shards after the mirror was broken.”

“It was not.” Marethari’s gaze moved from Ariane to Morrigan. “Merrill made a deal with a demon and learned blood magic in order to cleanse the remains of the mirror. At least, that is what she told me.”

“You exiled her for learning blood magic?” asked Lanaya.

Even Morrigan caught the younger keeper’s unspoken accusation— _that was a very human thing to do, Marethari_.

The older keeper also caught the accusation. “No. She exiled herself with choosing her path in her determination to fix the mirror. As I said, she is welcome to return once she gives up her choice in attempting to repair it. I will not see another life lost to its danger.”

“And you do not know where she is?” asked Morrigan.

“No, I do not.”

Morrigan resisted a sigh. She could tell Marethari was lying—lying through her teeth, in fact—but from prior experience, she also knew that Marethari wouldn’t break and tell them, no matter what they did. The nervousness at being in a place that Flemeth had recently been in was also getting to Morrigan the longer they remained near Sundermount, crawling at her skin in a barely restrained panic. “If there was one mirror,” she finally said, “then there must be more. They cannot all possibly be broken, and we must find one that is intact, even if you will not help us.”

“I am helping you,” said Marethari, “even if you do not know it.”

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed. “You sound like my mother. You have spent too much time in her company, I suspect.”

The keeper did not flinch. Instead, she inclined her head in acknowledgement. “I was tied to _Asha’belannar_ by a debt.”

“It seems everyone is.” Morrigan’s eyes flicked nervously toward Sundermount to take in the perpetual dark clouds gathered around its peak. The Veil was so thin up there she was surprised she couldn’t see the Fade. Couldn’t this old woman see the danger? She was her clan’s keeper. That meant she was supposed to protect her clan. She did them no favors by keeping them in a place where the Veil was wickedly thin. Morrigan turned back to Marethari. “If you care about your clan at all, Keeper, you would leave this place. The Veil here is thin, a mere unkind breath from being torn. It is dangerous. Deadly things will hunt your people, should you choose to remain.”

“Deadly things hunt you wherever you walk.” Marethari looked at a nearby tree, directly toward a crow perched on a low branch. She waved a hand and the crow flew away. “Sometimes, it matters not whether you stay or go. What is meant to find you always will.”


	64. Chapter 64

**Chapter 64**

“These truths the Maker has revealed to me:

As there is but one world,

One life, one death, there is

But one god, and He is our Maker.

They are sinners, who have given their love

To false gods.”

— _Canticle of Transfigurations 1:1_

**Vespasian**

****More bodies fell at Marnas Pell and the Veil shivered in protest as the final qunari soldier died. Archon Vespasian sighed at the carnage—the company of Tevinter soldiers had been without a mage, and the qunari had quickly capitalized on that advantage. Almost three-quarters of the soldiers had been wiped out before the second company, this one with three mages, showed up and helped defeat the qunari scouting party.

 _Scouting party_. Vespasian spat on the desiccated ground of the field, annoyed at how such a small group of qunari soldiers could still best the Tevinters when they had no magic to support them. Mages continued to be the deciding factor in their continued war with the qunari and, in fact, remained the only reason why the qunari had yet to conquer Tevinter. But having mages merely allowed them to survive. It did not give them a clear advantage that could be turned into a weapon to end the war entirely. To this end, he put his hope in Ethliel, fickle as she was. She often disappeared for weeks at a time without a word to him, returning in odd moments and never deigning to explain where she had gone. He would question, but who was he to question a god? No one, not even archons, could truly question them and expect to live. So he remained silent, and fumed. 

The surviving quarter of this company of soldiers had been lucky to have another company help them at all. The second group had been newly-trained recruits sent to practice in battle within areas where the Veil was thin. Most of the Tevinter army had massed at the southern borders of the Imperium, readying for an invasion of Nevarra, the Free Marches, and Ferelden once this Morrigan was found. The navy remained patrolling the coasts, ready to sail south when they discovered Ethliel’s daughter. She would be taken, and the power of the child she carried would be harnessed and used against the qunari. Once Tevinter was rid of the pesky, horned creatures, they could resume their journey to become the strongest nation in Thedas, as was their right. Things would be back to the way they were meant to be. He only had to remain patient, even as his troops clawed impatiently at the borders.

“This one is still alive,” one of the soldiers said to an officer.

“Question him, and then kill him,” the officer replied. “Standard procedure will be followed, even here.”

Qunari prisoners rarely, if ever, gave information that was of any use. The single qunari mentioned a few verses of the Qun, emitted other useless grunts, and then muttered something that caught Vespasian’s attention. The Archon turned on his heel and strode over to hear what the _ashaad_ was saying. 

“You were what?” the soldier asked.

The _ashaad_ sighed, as if terribly pained by the stupidity of the human posing the questions. It was a sigh and tone Vespasian had heard from many qunari. “We were sent by the Arishok to answer a question.”

“To... answer a question.”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Are you incapable of comprehending your own language, _basra_?”

Vespasian had to subdue a snort of laughter. At times—and this particular instance was one of them—he _loved_ the qunari. Too bad they insisted in engaging in a perpetual war with the Imperium, because he’d love nothing more to form an alliance with them. But their belief system was wholly incompatible with Tevinter’s, and so they remained at war. “What question did the Arishok ask, _ashaad_?”

A flicker of relief showed in the qunari’s violet eyes as he turned to face the Archon. “What is Tevinter looking for?”

“The child of a god.” 

The qunari’s face registered two things at once: disdain and surprise. “You seek... the child of an illusion?”

“An illusion is only such until it is made manifest before your very eyes.” Once, Vespasian had been like this qunari, believing that gods did not truly exist, from the Chantry’s Maker to the Old Gods of his ancestors. Then he had met Ethliel, witnessed her true form, and been made to see otherwise. He wasn’t, however, pleased to discover that his troop movements had been so transparent that the Arishok had figured out that he was searching for something. There was nothing he could do now to cover it up, as the damage was done. With the birth being only a scant months away, he would have to leave his troops in place. There would be no time to haul troops back only to sent them out again in time when the child was born. 

There was also the matter of _displeasing_ Ethliel. As matters went, that one wasn’t particularly high on his list of things to do, mostly because it would probably end up being the last thing he ever did. Alerting the Arishok to what he was specifically looking for would certainly displease the Ancient One. Too bad. He rather liked the idea of seeing Arishok’s face on hearing the true target of Tevinter’s search. “Kill him,” the Archon told the soldier, and then headed back toward where his cadre of officers stood. The qunari made no sound as he died.

Just beyond the last of the fresh bodies from the battle, Vespasian noticed the distinctive shimmering that signaled a tear in the Veil. Apparently that one last death had managed to rip the Veil. Wonderful. “Prefect,” he said, summoning his general, Nicanor, a competent and loyal man, two traits rarely found together amongst people in Tevinter, at least in Vespasian’s experience. The man also happened to not be a mage, but Vespasian had purposefully sought out a non-mage to lead his armies. He could direct the mages, as could any of his more competent apprentices. But leading the non-mages? That was something better left to one of their own. Nicanor was also trained as a templar in the ways set out by the Black Divine, and not in the stifling ways of the Orlesian Chantry. No, Nicanor would not step in to deal with a mage unless said mage had become an abomination. Though Vespasian was reluctant to admit it, it _was_ something that happened from time to time. Magisters were not immune to pride and the other faults upon which the demons preyed. 

“Archon,” came Nicanor’s answer in his even timbre. “You wish to deal with the tear?”

“Set the new mages to it. I was told these were good ones. I’d like to see them in action. Have your men at the ready in case I was told incorrectly.”

“It will be done as you say, Archon.” Nicanor clapped a fist to his chest in salute, and then turned to give his orders. The second company rushed out through the bodies and toward the tear in the Veil, the three young mages in the lead, their eagerness to prove themselves evident in the bounce to their steps. Six of the soldiers who followed slightly behind them were trained as templars, something that was becoming increasingly required as the qunari employed more and more of their own mages in their forces. _Saarebas,_ they called them. A dangerous thing. They chained, collared, and muzzled them, often cutting out their tongues for good measure. So far, the qunari were the only people who treated mages worse than the Orlesian Chantry. Even treated horribly as they were, the _saarebas_ were devastatingly effective on the battlefield, necessitating the inclusion of more templar-trained soldiers than any mage serving alongside them would like. But living through a battle was a far better outcome than merely suffering the presence of a templar. 

And for training exercises like these, the templars came in handy. Already, one of the mages had made a critical error. A demon had slipped through and immediately possessed the weak-willed man, his skin bubbling as he shifted into an abomination. The nearest templar acted without hesitation and skewered the mage, killing him, and the demon, instantly. A second mage became distracted by the goings-on with the first, and he was blindsided by a new demon. Another templar cut him down. Vespasian made a mental note to speak with the magister who had trained these so-called mages and spoken so highly of them. He’d seen First Annum apprentices more skilled than these. More demons, now accompanied by shades, started pouring from the tear. The lone remaining mage bolted, running away from the tear like he’d been lit on fire. The archon sighed in annoyance. There weren’t more than ten of the shades and demons combined, and it was a _little_ tear in the Veil. _Really_. What had this recalcitrant magister been thinking? That the Archon wouldn’t test mages sent to him? Evidently, it’s what the man had assumed. “See to it,” Vespasian said to Nicanor. 

The prefect snapped his fingers once, and the closest archer fired a single shot that felled the fleeing mage. Vespasian held in another sigh. Perhaps, if the young man had been trained properly, his talents wouldn’t have been wasted. But at this point, such cowardice would have been ingrained in the man, and he would be of no use in the army, or anywhere else. The Archon fetched his staff from a jeweled sling on his back, and then cast a tempest to deal with the Fade creatures lurking about on his battlefield. 

The soldiers near the tear gave the Archon a look of thankful relief as they sheathed their weapons. Vespasian nodded once to them and moved forward, eyes concentrating fully on the tear. He’d just have to close it himself. No matter for him. There was a reason why he’d become the Archon. As he began to summon his will, a flicker of movement within the rippling tear caught his eye, and he paused. Then he waited, curious as to what else would pop from the tear and into the immutable earth of the Maker’s second children. The soldiers behind him looked up from their tasks of gathering bodies and burning them, equally as curious. 

After a moment, the flicker resolved itself, and a yellow-eyed crow flew out of the tear to hover in front of Vespasian. Then the crow shifted into a shape with whom Vespasian was becoming far too familiar—Ethliel. 

She cracked her neck. “Ah. Much better, the earthly domain.” Then she glanced around them, taking in the scenery. “Marnas Pell. Wonderful place. So much death here. So much death that one can still hear screams of the dying in the Fade.”

“Charming,” said Vespasian. Another demon wandered out of the tear, and the soldiers nearby set upon it. “Maferath’s bloody _spear_.” The Archon sighed and went to step around the Ancient One before more of his soldiers were killed. He really hadn’t been planning on dealing with her today. She’d disappeared days—or was it weeks?—ago, mentioning something of having observations to make. So mired in his field reports he’d been that he’d barely noticed her departure. In fact, he rarely noticed Ethliel’s comings and goings unless she decided to take on her high dragon form. Or, he realized, she decided to make a dramatic and sudden appearance through a tear in the Veil. How she’d gotten bodily into the Fade was beyond him, though he supposed that was her right since she was a god.

“You are very dismissive today, Vespasian,” said Ethliel. Her voice remained mild, yet grating, and somehow still held a threat.

Vespasian gritted his teeth before turning to face her. “There is a tear in the Veil. I have already lost three mages, and several soldiers in a battle prior to the tear forming. Therefore, I must close it, or run the risk of losing more of my people.” 

She laughed. “Oh, that little thing?” Her hand flitted upward in a contemptuous gesture, and the tear snapped closed. The soldiers stared at the newly-repaired air in shock for a moment before turning, almost as one, to stare at the being who had fixed it. “A mere annoyance,” she said to Vespasian. “An minor irritant, much like an errant thread or a troublesome splinter. Pluck it and it goes away, the flesh or cloth around it sealing together like the irritant had never been there in the first place. This can be done with nearly anything. Any _one_ , in fact.”

He caught the threat, and ducked his head in acknowledgement. “Yes, Ethliel. I understand. I have been in remiss.”

She did not indicate that she’d heard him. Instead, she strolled toward where the tear had been just seconds before, and continued speaking, pitching her voice for only him to hear easily. “But this cannot be done with everyone. Only nearly. There are those who, when removed from our realm and even our very existence, rend great tears in what had been our lives. I have known beings such as these, and you are not one of them, Archon.” She slowly turned her head to fix her unnerving gaze on him. “You would do well to remember that, both within and without my presence.”

He nodded. “Yes, I would.”

She cocked her head to the side in an oddly bird-like gesture. “Do your children know who I am, Archon?”

Vespasian frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“That might be the most intelligent thing I’ve heard you say yet. How delightful!” She laughed again in that cackle that made him want to grind his teeth together. 

Vespasian flailed in his mind for an answer. Did she mean the people of Tevinter? Or was she referring directly to his son and two daughters? The idea of Ethliel interacting with his children sent a thrill of fear through him, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to run home and gather them into his arms. “I don’t—”

One of her long-fingered hands drifted upward to cut him off. “You need not continue proving... anything. Intelligence or ignorance, it is all the same.” She spun on her heel, pitching her voice so that all the soldiers present on the field could hear her. “Do any of you know my story? Do any of you know who I am? Do any of you know who _you_ are?”

“I am Tevinter,” one man said, his speaking up practically a sacrificial offer. With Ethliel’s nature today—mercurial even for her—a sacrifice might not be too far off the mark. Vespasian figured that, like himself, each man and woman standing on this field at Marnas Pell hoped that the sacrifice would not be them.

Ethliel gave the daring man a somber nod. “A commonplace answer, but fair.”

“A templar,” said another. “I am a templar.”

“A Black templar, your other Chantry would say, but still a man who thinks he can stop mages.” She tilted her head, peering at him as a hunter does its prey. “Do you think you could stop me?”

The man blinked rapidly as his eyes widened slightly in panic, and he cast a glance back at where the tear in the Veil had once been. “You are no ordinary mage. Not even...” the self-proclaimed templar trailed off and looked over at Vespasian. “Not even the Archon could close a tear in the Veil as quickly and easily as you did.”

Vespasian wanted to point out that no _mortal_ could close a Veil tear as Ethliel had, but he held his tongue. She was planning something, working up to something, and he didn’t dare interrupt it, lest he find himself a dead stepping-stone to her plan. 

“Yet he is the most powerful mage in Tevinter, or so the saying goes,” said Ethliel. 

“And what are you?” asked Nicanor. “Are you merely an old woman who struts about, making slightly crazed statements and asking inane questions?”

Ethliel turned to meet Nicanor’s gaze, with one eyebrow elegantly arched. “And who are you, to ask me such impertinent questions?”

“I am a man. No more and no less.”

She laughed in delight at the prefect’s answer. “You, I like. Tell me, simple man, how much stock do you put in names?”

“Once I find myself with a victory I can take solace in, I’ll let you know.”

On hearing his general’s answers, Vespasian realized that if Nicanor Manaem had been born a mage, he could have been a powerful magister, perhaps even rising to Archon himself.  The name Nicanor bore meant victory, and every man who has been in battle knows that rarely, if ever, can you take true solace in a victory. Solace, if it came at all, only presented itself with not dying. And solace was one meaning of Nicanor’s surname. Interesting. 

Ethliel evidently found the prefect interesting as well. “Simple, yet clever. A rare combination in any realm.” She took a few more steps, the soldiers dutifully parting to make room for her between ranks. The task of moving and burning the bodies of the dead had been long forgotten. Then she faced Nicanor again. “Tell me, what do you value above all in this world?”

“My children.” The answer came without hesitation.

Vespasian agreed, and found himself nodding with the others.

“As do I.” She paused and looked toward Vespasian for a moment before shifting her disconcerting yellow eyes toward some point beyond the Archon. 

Alarm built up in Vespasian’s chest as he considered what Ethliel might be contemplating. Whatever it was, he couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t involve suffering on his part. Everything was balanced on the tip of Hessarian’s sword right now. A nudge one way or the other, and Tevinter would come crashing down, either from the inside or from the qunari or any other nation on Thedas. All of Tevinter’s armies were stationed along the southern border now. Only the navy was still in the north, continuing its patrol of the Nocen and Venefication Seas, along with the treacherous Ventosus Straits.

“I once told someone that names were pretty, but useless.” Her eyes had again strayed into memory, but then she blinked and stared hard at Vespasian. “And yet, they do provide so much insight into one’s character, either through the name or from the person giving them. Do you know what my name means, Archon?”

Vespasian attempted to pick apart the god’s name in his mind, mixing and matching stems and roots and hunting for the meaning hidden inside. The language from which the name originated, however, was a mystery to him, and he couldn’t figure it out. It shamed him to realize that he should have made the attempt to understand it sooner. “No, I do not.” At times, dealing with Ethliel was a bit like dealing with the qunari—honesty usually resulted in oneself being less dead.

Usually.

“Time.”

He stared at her when she didn’t elaborate, her elongated silence finally forcing him to ask, “Pardon?”

“Time, Archon. It means time. I thought I had time, that I was made of time. Instead, all I have, all that I am, is regret. Because of this I am know by many names, some of which you may recognize—Ethliel, _Asha’belannar,_ Valoel.”

 _Old woman who talks too much_ , Vespasian thought, but did not say. He liked the insides of his body unboiled, thank you very much.

“Old woman who talks too much,” Ethliel said, giving Vespasian a smirk, setting him to suspect she could read minds. “Most alive today, if they are not one of the People, know me as Flemeth. It matters not what you call me. What matters is who I am.” Her gaze swept over the Tevinter soldiers now unconsciously gathered in rows before her. “Do you know who I am?”

Vespasian could think of several answers and he knew Flemeth wanted only one. What he couldn’t figure out was which answer she desired. So he kept his silence.

“What are you,” asked Nicanor, “other than an old woman who prattles on?”

The Archon wondered if he’d need a new prefect by the end of the day. Signs were pointing to yes, if the man kept this up.

Lucky for Nicanor, maybe, Flemeth chuckled. “That is only one part of me. But what I truly am, above all else, is a mother.”

“The Mother of the Seven,” said Vespasian, his voice barely above a whisper. In the silence of the barren fields that had once been the city of Marnas Pell, it may well have been a shout. The wind picked up, blowing dust over the clump of bodies near the ruins of what had been buildings, many Ages ago. 

“The Seven.” Flemeth turned into the wind and lifting her arms as if to embrace it. Not a single white hair moved from where it was bound into horns resembling a dragon’s face. The assembled men and women hardly dared to even breathe as they waited for whatever it was Flemeth had planned. “They were my firstborn. They were beautiful and handsome, strong and clever, and the being you call your Maker was jealous of them and their power. Humans worshipped them, and your Maker wanted the adulation for himself.” She dropped her arms and the wind stopped, the very air becoming absolutely still. “And so he took it.” Flemeth spun and gazed over the soldiers watching her. “Allow me to show you.”

The land, the world around them, _shifted_. 

All of them fell to the ground except for Flemeth, her laughter singing along the wind that had picked up once again. Vespasian tried to shut out the sound of the cackles as he struggled to get to his feet. His eyes widened as he caught sight of the low-hanging, dark shape of the Black City overhead. The soldiers were still massed around him, similarly gawking and attempting to regain their bearings. He couldn’t help but gape—the old woman had brought them _en masse_ to the Fade. Whether through her own power or by harnessing the energy given by the deaths of the many at the battlefield, Vespasian wasn’t sure. Either way, it was certainly an inhuman feat of magic not seen since the Magisters of long ago had entered the Golden City. 

“And here is my other playground,” said Flemeth. “More mutable than the earth, certainly, but not quite as much fun. Because, here, I hear them. I hear them calling to me.”

“I don’t understand,” said Nicanor. 

“Then I will show you, as promised.” A flick of her fingers and they were in the depths of a winter forest, skeletal branches stretching toward a bright sky. More people had appeared, milling in between all the soldiers, murmuring and muttering in Arcanum, though Vespasian couldn’t catch enough to identify what they were saying. Flemeth spoke over the voices and said, “Wait for them. My children will appear as they once were. And... there they are.”

Seven high dragons rose from the trees and soared into the sky. The people on the ground dropped to their knees, Vespasian and Nicanor among them. As his eyes lit upon each one, Vespasian knew the dragon for who it was. “Dumat,” he said. “Zazikel. Toth.”

“Andoral. Razikale. Lusacan,” said Nicanor.

Vespasian pointed at the last one. “Urthemiel.” 

“My firstborn,” said Flemeth. “My children. And Samandirel _took them from me_.” Her voice grew in intensity until the rage previously so well-hidden under a veneer of detached amusement burst forth. Her human arms became wings and she fully shifted into her dragon-form, maroon scales iridescent in the brightness as she took flight.

The crowd began uttering words of praise and worship, and he found himself wanting to join them. He glanced around him, taking note of every soldier already participating, and then saw someone at once recognized, though the man should have been a stranger. He was on his knees like every other witness in the cold, unnamed forest, his dark blue eyes oriented towards the sky, a thin scar livid on a pale face. To someone of Vespasian’s age and experience, this person was barely more than a boy. A young man who should be beneath his notice, and yet, he noticed. This was the prince, one of the people they were looking for, one who would lead them to Morrigan. Vespasian lunged toward him.

Then the sky cracked and the light became so bright that he had to squeeze his eyes shut. When he opened them, the world was on fire. The mountain looming in the background had burst, releasing burning rocks and flame, while the ground shook and great rents formed in the soil. Trees tumbled and pitched into the gaping maws, and suddenly the holes in the earth _pulled_. Ethereal screams were ripped from the dragons’ throats as they were grasped and tugged, and then they all plummeted into the newly-opened earth. A final shudder, and the earth sealed behind the dragons. 

They were gone.

A great cry rose up, wailing and fear and dismay that the beautiful creatures had been taken away. And behind it, a great silence, broken only by a certain keening.

Flemeth plunged down from the sky, landing in front of the mass of humanity, once again in her human form. “They call to me. I hear their cries for freedom, for vengeance, for _me_. Some of you heard them, some of you heard their whispers and learned from them. You learned who the Maker really was—a jealous, cowardly rival. You sought Samandirel’s kingdom to take his power for your own, and he cast you down to be with my children. But before he did that, he twisted you, _tainted_ you, so that you would corrupt my beautiful children. Your glorious _Maker_ was not content with merely imprisoning my children. No. Through you, he twisted them, corrupted them, turned them into vile abominations of nature, fit only for slaughter.”

“This Maker is not my god,” said Nicanor, who had managed to get to his feet. But as soon as he spoke, he went down to one knee, and bowed his head. “Silence is my god. Chaos, Fire, Chains, Beauty, Mystery, and Night are my gods. And Vengeance—Valoel.”

She chuckled. “I do not want your worship.”

“And yet you have it.”

“Rise. You kneel too easily. I simply wanted you to know who I was, so that you could understand why you must do what I and Vespasian will have you do. Four of my firstborn are dead. They are free, yes, but gone to you and I and everyone, their beauty and power forever lost. I have three of my firstborn left, three who must be released. I have spent hundreds upon hundreds of years devising a way to free one of my firstborn, only to be thwarted by my mortal daughter at the end of the last Blight. It is her you and your countrymen seek, for she carries the soul of Urthemiel within her.” She laughed again and suddenly flung a gauntleted hand in the direction of a man stumbling through the crowd. “Behold, my messenger!”

Many pairs of eyes immediately shifted from Flemeth to the newcomer, Vespasian’s included—he had long ago lost sight of the prince and attributed the boy’s appearance to his imagination’s impression on the Fade. Yet he also recognized this man, his dark eyes widening at the sudden attention. Flemeth then bade him to speak, and Marius said to the crowd, “Samandirel has heard her message. One of Valoel’s children will soon be reborn, Beauty in a little wolf, twinned with a wolf king. From this, change will come to the world, and vengeance will be hers.”

Flemeth laughed once more.

In the distance, Vespasian saw a woman. Her eyes were like Flemeth’s, the glittering yellow of a hunter, dangerous and alluring. Her features were ones he imagined Flemeth once possessed. This would be the daughter, then. Morrigan. Her unnerving eyes went wide as she recognized the old woman standing in the middle of the attentive crowd. Vespasian blinked, and in that split-second, the woman had become a crow, just as the mother could do. Then she was gone, winging away in a desperate escape. Vespasian watched until the dark speck of her form disappeared from the sky, and then looked behind him to where Flemeth was.

“She is as I raised her to be, and is determined to remain outside my influence. Pity that she does not see the futility. She will be found, and so will her children.” With that, Flemeth shifted into her high dragon form, took to the sky, and flew away in pursuit of the crow.

Vespasian woke with a gasp, his breath almost ripped from his throat and his heart thrumming in his chest. Next to him, his wife stirred in her sleep. He reached out with a shaking hand and touched the softness of her hair, allowing the touch to ground him. He was home in his bed and no longer in the Fade. No longer in that dream again, of that day at Marnas Pell when he and his soldiers had been unwillingly and unwittingly brought into the Fade by a very angry ancient god. He dreamed of it day and night, and thought he could still hear the pleading cries of the trapped Old Gods from within the dark earth. He dreamed of it even as he continued to do her bidding, to follow her directions and research where ancient Tevinter had maintained seats of power throughout Thedas. When he inquired as to why, she informed him that her daughter would be looking for power, for escape, and those are the places where she would find them.

The Archon took a steadying breath, and then slid out of bed. He pulled on a cloak against the cool, night air before heading from his room. After that day, he had understood Ethliel—Flemeth, Valoel, whatever they were calling her—just a little. He understood now why she had told him that he wouldn’t understand because he wasn’t a mother. But he was a father. He had children of his own and could identify with the horrors of having them taken away and trapped forever. His youngest was afraid of the dark, and Vespasian shuddered to imagine his littlest daughter locked away in a place that would make her cry for eternity. Or his son and how he hated enclosed spaces. An hour accidentally locked in the closet still gave the boy nightmares. The screams of terror the lad had emitted had given _Vespasian_ nightmares. To be kept from saving his children while they were subjected to horrific traumas was not something he ever wanted to experience. And yet, Valoel lived that every day, had lived that for hundreds of years, all because of another being’s jealousy and impotence. While she maintained a façade most of the time, he knew the rage that lay just below, and held barely in check.

And then he knew there was a desperation fueling that rage. A desperation that she would do absolutely anything to free her children. He suspected that the anything included sacrificing her mortal child, if it came to that. 

Vespasian found that his middle of the night walk had brought him to his daughters’ room. From the doorway, he watched them sleep, one entirely silent, and the other with a light snore. As he watched, he knew he would do anything for them, for his children. Anything.

Just as Flemeth would do anything for hers.

Yes, he understood.


	65. Chapter 65

**Chapter 65**

“When anyone in Ferelden speaks of ‘going to the city,’ they inevitably mean Denerim. There is no other place in the kingdom which rivals it: not in size, population, wealth, or importance. It is the seat of the Theirin family, the capital of Ferelden, the largest seaport, and, by ancient tradition, the meeting place of the Landsmeet.

As well, Denerim was the birthplace of Andraste. One of them, anyway, as several other sites claim to have been the prophet’s early home, including Jader, in Orlais. The Chantry takes no stance on which site’s claim is valid, but it is well known that Andraste was Fereldan by birth. When visiting the pilgrimage site in Denerim, it is inadvisable to mention Jader at all.

The city rests at the foot of the Dragon’s Peak, a solitary mountain scarred by ancient lava flows. During Andraste’s lifetime, it reputedly filled the sky with a great column of black ash and sent burning rock raining down as far away as the Free Marches, but it is now considered extinct. Some believe it merely sleeps, and will again darken the sky with ash and fire when the last Fereldan king dies, but this is highly unlikely.”

—from _In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar_ by Brother Genitivi

**Malcolm**

Malcolm shifted in the saddle, briefly casting his eyes toward the forest from the view of Denerim’s approaching walls. Traveling at this time of day made him nervous, and the fact that they could finally see the safety of the city’s walls had him almost convinced that they’d be attacked before they could reach it. After all, that’s what’d always happened during the Blight. From how lively the horse was getting under him, he knew the animal was picking up on his nervousness, and he made a conscious effort to relax, at least in body. His mind kept alert, though, because dusk and dawn, with their twilight that made it difficult to see properly, were strategically the best times for attacks. While the darkspawn didn’t pay much attention to that sort of strategic planning, the better bandits usually did. He didn’t think the group of Wardens would have much difficulty with bandits, but it certainly would delay their arrival. His ears caught a whisper, and then another as he paid more attention, and he made out the language as Antivan. 

Damn.

“Oh, hey, Crows,” said Malcolm, trying to alert the others, but not wanting to cause shouting and a panic, especially with the horses. 

“Saw one earlier. Not interested in seeing more,” Líadan said from where she rode beside him, not even bothering to look over.

“Not those kind. The _Antivan_ kind.”

“Honestly, I’m not sure which is worse,” Anders said from his position riding near the rear.

Líadan turned around to look at the mage. “You never even _met_ Zevran.”

“No, but I’ve met Antivans.”

“And you’re about to meet more,” said Nathaniel, drawing his horse to a halt. He already had his bow out and an arrow nocked. 

Anders grimaced. The entire party stopped, and everyone except Nathaniel dismounted and brought weapons to the ready. 

A weary sigh came from the treeline. “You know,” said a man with an Antivan accent, “we had not yet decided whether we were going to attack. Your assumption of a defensive position is premature.”

“Is it necessary?” asked Hildur. “Wait, what? You hadn’t _decided_ whether you were going to attack?”

A lone dark-haired man stepped from the trees, his hands empty and held upward in a gesture of goodwill. “Our contract was for Riordan, the Warden Commander of Ferelden. I see that he is not among you. Had you not heard us and stopped to investigate, we would have allowed you to continue on your way.”

Hildur frowned, and did not let up from her defensive stance. “I’m the Warden Commander. Riordan is already dead. The darkspawn filled your contract for you.”

“How very kind of them.” The Antivan shared in Hildur’s frown. “This is most unfortunate. How will I explain to the Crows that we have failed in our contract?”

“I’m still trying to figure out why Crows are taking contracts on Grey Wardens. I thought, even in Antiva, that killing Wardens is impolitic. A Crow told me that once,” said Malcolm. It seemed that Ser Tamra’s predicted conspiracy had finally decided to make a move, if somewhat late and entirely unnecessary at this point.

“Zevran had the right of it,” the man said. “But the coin was very hard to turn down. Yet now we have no proof of Riordan’s death were we to return to the guild in Antiva.”

“You’re welcome to try and retrieve his body from the Deep Roads,” said Nathaniel.

“That would more than guarantee our own deaths.”

“Really? I had no idea.”

“If you could stop antagonizing the Crow, Nathaniel, that would be nice,” said Anders.

Nathaniel’s cold stare remained on the Crow, but he directly his reply to Anders. “If they were templars, mage, you would act no different.”

Anders looked to have an objection in mind, mouth opening to say it, and then abruptly closed it before giving an answer.

“He’s got you there,” said Hildur, and then she turned back to the Crow leader. “So you won’t be venturing into the Deep Roads?”

“As much as I would like proper evidence, I and my group would not like to engage in an act that would result in our deaths,” said the Crow.

“An engaging in an act of battle with Grey Wardens would certainly result in your deaths,” said Sten.

The Crow stroked his mustache. “Yes, it would be, in a fair fight. Which, at this point, would be the situation, having given up our element of surprise.”

“And the fact that you have only one archer,” said Nathaniel.

“Even if you were somehow successful in killing all of us here, Weisshaupt would not take kindly to the Crows killing seven Grey Wardens. Added to that would be the anger of the Ferelden Crown if you killed the king’s brother.” Hildur made a vague motion behind her, where Malcolm was walking up to stand next to her. 

“Yes,” said Malcolm, “let’s point out all their high-value targets for them. Makes their job easier.”

Hildur rolled her eyes. “Relax. They aren’t going to kill you if there isn’t a contract for it. No coin in it. No coin, no killing, not unless absolutely necessary.” She directed her attention back to the Crow. “Am I right?”

“At the moment, killing members of the Ferelden royal family is also considered impolitic,” he said. “Bad for business and living, to kill people who have ended a Blight, much like killing Wardens.” Then he looked over at Malcolm, and gave a deep bow. “I had thought we might be in the presence of royalty, but I could not be sure. Forgive my manners. My name is Baltasar. I had a passing acquaintance with Zevran Arainai, and I was once a friend to Oriana Cousland. While I may have accepted the contract with Riordan, given my connections, I would never accept a contract on your life, your Highness.”

Malcolm fought the impulse to roll his eyes. “Anyone can claim to know Zevran and Oriana. It’s well known by now that Zevran was my friend and Oriana my sister-in-law.”

“Yes. And that connection has made you nigh untouchable among the Crows, you should be happy to know.”

“Yes, I’m thrilled, really.” However, though he’d never admit it, Malcolm did believe him—at least that last part—and felt a tiny bit of relief. If they had to travel to Antiva, it seems they’d have no problems from the Crows. 

“ _Now_ who’s antagonizing the Crows?” asked Anders.

Sigrun tilted her head to the side. “More trivializing than antagonizing, I would say.”

“That would antagonize _me_ ,” said Líadan.

“Dear lady, plenty of things antagonize you. I doubt I could find enough parchment to complete the list, were I to attempt to write it down,” said Anders.

Malcolm snorted, and then deliberately did not look back at Líadan, lest he catch the full force of the glare he knew she now had focused on him.

Hildur pointedly ignored the goings-on behind her and continued her conversation with Baltasar. “Who ordered Riordan’s death?” 

“Like he’s going to just _tell_ —” Malcolm started to say.

“A group of Amaranthine banns,” Baltasar said, interrupting Malcolm. At the prince’s surprised look, he shrugged. “What? I have nothing to lose. Besides that, I was not paid for my silence.”

“How much was your contract for Riordan?” Hildur asked.

“One hundred sovereigns.”

A wave of anger surged through Malcolm. He was willing to bet all the coin he had from his Warden stipend that those sovereigns had once been in Highever’s coffers. They would have been taken by Rendon Howe, distributed to his cronies for various nefarious deeds, and then funded an assassination contract on Riordan. 

“I agree, Malcolm,” Nathaniel said from his perch on his horse, his thoughts having gone in the same direction. He studied Baltasar again, and then slightly lowered his bow. “Since you cannot complete your contract as indicated, your lives are forfeit to the Crows, aren’t they?”

“Possibly. We cannot truly know until we return to Antiva. If the guildmasters try to have us killed, we will know then.”

“And if you were to be offered more coin to work for someone other than the banns? A higher-priced contract, if you would?”

“Oh, Nathaniel, that is a _fine_ idea,” said Hildur. 

“The Wardens would hire assassins? Mercenaries?” asked Sten, looking disgusted at the notion.

Hildur turned to Sten. “No, not the Wardens.” Then she looked at Malcolm. “But perhaps the Fereldan Crown might have uses for a group of assassins at their beck and call.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not seriously suggesting that, are you?”

She smiled. “As long as you’re paying more, their contract is yours. They are very loyal to coin, especially reliable coin.”

“They can also then give you the names of the conspirators. It is worth the gold, even just for that,” said Nathaniel.

“Right. And when we get back to Denerim, how am I supposed to explain to Alistair that I hired a bunch of assassins to work for him?” Malcolm could think of a lot of awkward conversations—and he’d already had many in his life—and having to tell to his brother about hiring _assassins_ was at the top of the list. 

“You give him the better news first, is all,” said Sigrun. “It’s what I used to do with my commander in the Legion. Tell your brother that you found out who the conspirators against Riordan are, and then spring the news about the assassins now being in the Crown’s employ.”

Malcolm couldn’t really argue that having the names of the conspirators would mean a great deal of security on a lot of people’s parts. He sighed. “Fine.” Then he reluctantly turned to Baltasar. “Any amount over your current contract price would be acceptable?”

“At least one hundred and fifty sovereigns for the list. More if you would like to keep us in your employ.”

“I don’t know,” said a female voice from the trees, “I think I’d be okay working for the Fereldan Crown at my cut of those one hundred and fifty sovereigns. It beats the possibility of being killed as soon as we return to Antiva.”

Baltasar gave a slight roll of his eyes. “It seems we have a price, then, my prince.”

Malcolm nodded. “Agreed. You can come with us, but I want the list as collateral.” Before Baltasar could reply, he walked back to his horse and retrieved writing implements. “Now tell me who they are.”

The Antivan told him the names, and then the Wardens and the five Crows were on their way to Denerim. By the time they entered the city, it was past sunset. A sunset which Malcolm noted as particularly colorful and spectacular, a trend he’d observed ever since the Blight had ended. He mentioned his observation to Anders, but the mage only shrugged and muttered something about being trapped in the sodding Tower for too long. Hildur took the Crows and the other Wardens to the Warden compound after telling Malcolm and Líadan to go find Alistair and give him the news. She would keep the Crows occupied until the Crown could figure out what to do with them. After asking a few startled servants for the King’s whereabouts, the pair managed to find Alistair in a study that had once been Cailan’s, and was now his. 

Malcolm knocked once on the door and announced his name before letting himself and Líadan inside. 

“She said yes.” Alistair didn’t look up from the stack of papers on his desk as Malcolm and Líadan entered, nor did he bother with a pretext of saying hello to them. Instead, he gave them the news he knew they would’ve inquired about without preamble.

Líadan gracefully slid into one of the three chairs in front of the King’s desk. “Oh, Alistair. I’m sorry.”

Malcolm snorted as he dropped into one of the other chairs, earning himself a glare from the elf. He held up his hands to fend off her ire. “I’m only laughing because I was thinking the same thing, and that it’s kind of ridiculous that we’re _apologizing_ about Alistair’s impending nuptials. Normally, it’s a time for congratulations. At least, that’s how it was with Fergus.” 

The King set the quill on his desk and looked up at the two sitting across from him. “It could be worse, I suppose.”

“She _is_ rather easy on the eyes,” Malcolm said with a nod. “I mean, she could’ve been ugly.”

“And she doesn’t look like Loghain,” said Líadan.

Malcolm tilted his head as if considering the notion. “Which is kind of the same thing.”

“No, I wouldn’t say that.”

Both brothers raised their eyebrows in surprise, indicating that the elf should continue her peculiar train of thought. “Please,” said the King, “feel free to expound on that.”

She sighed. “I’m not saying I would’ve hopped into bed with him, so stop looking so scandalized, both of you. I was just repeating what others had said about him behind closed doors. Apparently he had a certain dark, broody appeal to him, that’s all.”

“So, sort of like an older Nathaniel?” asked Malcolm. 

“Speaking of Nathaniel.” Alistair cleared his throat, indicating that he would very much like a change of subject. “When is he going to be taking Hildur’s place? I imagine the Bannorn isn’t much going to like having a dwarf, much less a dwarf from the Anderfels, in charge of the Fereldan Wardens.”

Malcolm shrugged. “Don’t know. Ask Hildur when you meet with her. I mean, I’m assuming you’re meeting with her, right?” He knew they still needed to go over just what they’d be saying to the Landsmeet and how to present Malcolm’s idea for the Arling of Amaranthine in the best light. He was just a bit fuzzy on when they’d be working out the details beforehand.

Alistair glanced down at another piece of parchment. “At... some point before the Landsmeet. I think.” He squinted. “It seems I can’t read my own handwriting.”

“Aren’t you supposed to have a scribe or a secretary or something?” asked Líadan. “I thought kings had those sorts of things.”

“His day off,” said Alistair. “He’ll be around tomorrow as we start to finalize preparations for the Landsmeet.” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and looked over at his brother. “And Anora wants to meet with you about your ideas for Amaranthine, too.”

Malcolm made a face and slumped in his chair. “I don’t _want_ to meet with Anora.” He knew he sounded like a petulant child, and immediately felt badly about it. “Okay, I take it back. You don’t particularly want to _marry_ Anora, so you got the worse end of the bargain. The least I can do is suck it up and meet with her without assuming bad things will come of it.”

“She’s really not all bad, once you get to know her a little.” Alistair visible relaxed a bit in his chair. “I honestly think Cailan took her for granted, and never really bothered to try to... what’s the word...”

Líadan raised a bemused eyebrow. “Woo her? Romance her? Court her?” When Alistair didn’t reply, she said, “I could keep going. I learned this list from Zevran.”

The King scowled. “No, no need to go on. But, I guess I meant along those lines. Cailan never appreciated her, anyway, not judging by how many mistresses I’ve gotten reports of him having. Maker’s breath, arranged marriage or not, I wouldn’t think of doing that to my wife. With that in mind, I’m determined to make it work to the best degree that I can.”

“But will she?” Malcolm asked. It sounded like a fine idea, but it would take both of them to make it work, not just one person’s determination. If the dedication of one person like that worked in keeping relationships together, there would be a lot less breakups than what tended to happen in reality. Not that he didn’t want this to work for his brother; he _did._ Desperately, in fact, because Alistair was in part doing this for him, so that he didn’t have to enter into an arranged marriage of his own in order to produce Theirin heirs. They would have to hope, though, that the fault had been Cailan’s in the lack of children between him and his wife, and that Alistair and Anora could produce an heir of their own. Personally, Malcolm really didn’t see himself leaving Líadan’s side, not for Morrigan, and certainly not for anyone else. That meant no heirs from him, leaving the responsibility to Alistair. 

Alistair gave him a small grin. “We’ve spoken about it. She’s agreed to try. She fears that we’ll end up butting heads more about affairs of state than anything personal.” He lifted both his eyebrows in mock surprise. “ _Apparently_ , I can be charming.”

“That’s probably why you’re not dead,” said Malcolm. “It’s a Theirin thing. At least, that’s what Fergus told me.”

Líadan sighed. “I can vouch for that. I should’ve killed you several times over by now, and yet, here you are, alive and well.”

“So far, anyway.” Malcolm shared a quick smile with her, and then turned back to his brother. “When is the wedding?”

“We’re aiming for Wintersend. I know, not the typical time for a wedding, since usually that’s when the engagements are announced, and the actual marriages are left to Summerday. But, as we all know, I can’t afford to waste time, not with the influence of the taint. That being said, it’s still a state affair, which means the wedding needs to be large and very planned out down to the last detail. You’ll have to stand with me, being my brother and all, and there’s rumors that you’re a prince, too. I know you’ll be looking for Morrigan, but either you’ll have to stay here through the winter, or you’ll have to make sure you’re back here in Denerim by Wintersend.”

This time it was Malcolm shifting in his seat. “That doesn’t give us a lot of time.” The Landsmeet was taking place right after Satinalia, a celebration that had been overlooked by Malcolm and those close to him in the past year. And, by the looks of things, wouldn’t be as much observed this year. That gave him barely three months—Firstfall, Haring, and Wintermarch—to possibly travel to all lengths of Thedas and back to Denerim. 

“Just remember, it could be worse,” said Alistair. “I mean, Eamon could still be the Chancellor, and he’d have absolutely insisted that you stay through the winter, no matter what. And that would’ve led to a spectacular argument that would’ve had lots of yelling and shouting and all kinds of fun things.”

“He has a point,” said Líadan. “And in Denerim, with Eamon is Isolde, don’t forget.”

“And here I thought you _liked_ yelling,” said Malcolm.

Alistair lifted an eyebrow.

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Not what I meant. What I _mean_ is that Líadan’s been in as many shouting matches with Eamon as I have, if not more. Probably more at this point.”

“No, I was running two behind you.” Líadan flashed a grin when Malcolm gave her a questioning look. Then she said, “Stop looking at me like that. Yes, I kept track. Helped me keep from killing him with fire.”

“Since he’s still the Arl of Redcliffe, he’ll be here for the Landsmeet,” said Alistair. “So please keep the killing magic aimed at the arl to a minimum. On second thought, just keep the killing magic to a minimum in general, unless you happen to see a group of darkspawn or bandits or something else threatening like that.”

“Nobles can be like bandits sometimes,” said Malcolm.

“Not helping.” Alistair briefly rubbed his forehead with his fingers, and then looked over at the elf. “Líadan, you won’t actually have to attend the Landsmeet. Hildur will, and Nathaniel because he’s being trained to replace her, and Malcolm because he’s stuck being my brother.”

“I think that’s a crap reason.” Malcolm made an effort to sit up straighter in his chair. “It isn’t like I have other reasons for being there. Like, for instance, you’re forcing me because the entire reshaping plan for Amaranthine is my idea.”

“Oh, yes, sucks to be you,” said Líadan. “Such a hard life you have as a human prince on Thedas, I’m sure.”

“I...” Malcolm trailed off as he gave Líadan another look, this one more discerning than the first. There might’ve been a certain undertone in her statement, lighthearted jab though she’d tried to make it. He knew that as a human noble, he had certain privileges granted to him that he rarely took notice of because it had _always_ been that way. Spending time with elves and dwarves and more non-nobles in the past year had really illustrated to him just how different it was from being raised in the nobility. Before the Blight, he’d really never had to worry about coin, aside from the arithmetic he’d been taught as a child, and lessons on finance in running a teyrnir. He’d never had to worry about losing his home or his parents losing their livelihood. He’d never had to worry about finding suitable clothing or enough food. He’d also never endured the sort of treatment elves had endured through the ages, and continued to endure even now. Had he and Alistair been raised by their natural mother, most likely they’d have experienced all of that. But what she and Maric had chosen to do with their sons had made certain that they didn’t suffer any of the prejudice and mistreatment that was directed at elves and elf-blooded humans. 

And Líadan, in her own way, was reminding him that as bad as his life could sometimes look, if he studied it in another light, it wasn’t so bad. Even with the Wardens, he’d never have to worry about food and shelter. As a human noble, especially as a prince, he wouldn’t be given the treatment elves were, city or Dalish. It also reminded him of how Líadan might be treated during their time here in Denerim—she was a Dalish elf, and she was involved with a Fereldan prince. There would be talk behind their backs, and perhaps even to their faces. He didn’t care what others thought, but he _did_ care about what they said about her, and how hearing or experiencing any of those things would make her feel. He hadn’t been concerned like this with Morrigan, mostly because Morrigan’s childhood spent with Flemeth had made her all but immune to anyone’s negative opinions of her. Sometimes, he’d even wondered if she’d reveled in that sort of verbal conflict. No, being called horrid things wasn’t something that affected Morrigan one way or another unless you were close to her. What _had_ really affected Morrigan was being nice. She just didn’t know how to contend with that. He wondered if she was the same way, even now. 

Most likely. 

Suddenly, he had to push away a wave of regret, of missing her. Not in the romantic sense as it had once been, but in missing his _friend_. He missed her dry, cutting remarks on situations she observed. He missed her unique outlook and philosophy on the world. He even missed the rapport Morrigan and Líadan had once had. During the Blight they’d been almost like sisters, thick as thieves, those two were. They’d tortured him, and Alistair, to an extent, with their verbal jabs and setups. Maker take him, he even missed that. Away from the influence of everyone telling him that what Morrigan had done was _wrong_ and _horrific_ , that she’d doomed them all and betrayed all who had called her a friend, he found that he wasn’t really angry with her. Not anymore. Now, he was just curious, and concerned. He wanted to know what she was doing, if she was okay. 

Yes, he missed his friend. Part of him wondered if she missed him, if she missed her near-sister Líadan. Nothing they could do for that now but to search, so he nudged aside the regret to focus on the present. Like how Líadan would deal with the gossiping and in-fighting nature of the nobility.

She’d grown up in a loving clan. Sure, from stories she’d told him, they’d fought like any large, extended family, but there’d been the acceptance and little ill-treatment. While Líadan dealt perfectly fine with direct aggression, he wasn’t quite sure about how she’d react to the passive-aggressiveness that so often permeated the human nobility, especially when gathered for events like the Landsmeet. He also didn’t want to hide his relationship with her, either. Otherwise, nobles would get the wrong idea. Once they saw that the King was taken and married, overzealous nobles would begin to try to attach themselves to what they saw as the next-best-thing, the king’s younger brother. That was something he wanted to put a stop to as quickly as possible if it started looking like things were going in that direction with the nobility.

“I’m not going to lecture you on social privilege,” Líadan said once it became apparent that Malcolm wasn’t going to finish his question. “Not this time, anyway. Besides, I got out of the Landsmeet and you still have to go.” She punctuated her statement with a self-satisfied smirk.

Malcolm narrowed his eyes at her. Maybe it _was_ best that Líadan and Morrigan hadn’t spent more time together. He sighed. It wouldn’t be so bad if she didn’t sound so _gleeful_ about it. He stretched out his legs, noticing exactly how dirty his boots were and thinking they really should have taken the time to wash the dust from the road off before they’d gone and found Alistair. Of course, they’d had good reason to go after Alistair right away, given what’d happened on the road earlier, but the King had distracted them from giving him the news. “By the way,” Malcolm said, “I might have accidentally hired you a spy network. Or some Crown assassins. Or both.”

“You opened with _that_?” asked Líadan.

 _Yes_ , Malcolm thought, _definitely glad they didn’t spend more time together._

Alistair raised his right eyebrow, which most of the time signaled the possibility of him becoming righteously angry. “And how does one accidentally hire spies or assassins? Aside from them trying to assassinate you or spy on you or both, and getting into your household by being hired as normal workers?”

“It was Hildur’s fault!” Malcolm frowned as he recalled about what’d happened. “And Nathaniel’s. Not mine, not really. I was just a mouthpiece more than anything.” He dug into the larger pouch on his belt. “Besides, they gave me information that will come in handy for the Landsmeet. Or before, if you want to act on it sooner.” Then he triumphantly came up with the parchment that had the names the head Crow had given him. “Here. Also, Anora will probably want to know. And the Landsmeet. I just realized, the Landsmeet will be a lot more fun. Accusations of treason flying everywhere! Like you say, it’ll be like old times. Well, with less appointing of new kings. Hopefully.”

“Would you mind telling me the entire story? From the beginning, preferably, and none of this jumping back and forth with partial information?” Despite his words, Alistair took the proffered parchment and started to look over it.

Malcolm recounted what’d occurred with the unusual meet up with the band of Crows on the southern section of the North Road. Alistair’s reactions varied between laughing and astonishment and outrage, the same emotions Malcolm had felt during the quasi-confrontation. “In the end, I hired them, because it was the easiest option,” he said, finishing the story. “I suppose I could call it a wedding present. I wonder if that _is_ a traditional wedding gift in Antiva.”

Alistair placed the parchment down on his desk. “I hesitate to wonder just what one does with personal assassins.”

“Order assassinations, I assume,” said Malcolm. “Not sure what else one does with assassins. Oh, wait, that’s right. They’re also apparently good spies. I wonder if the Crown has some sort of spy network in place. I hear it’s a necessity no matter where your monarchy is.”

“Possibly. That’s something Anora would know.”

“Or Eamon.” Though Malcolm was reluctant to point it out, the fact remained that Eamon had a great knowledge of the goings-on with the Crown and the nobility. They might even need to include him in this once he got to Denerim. The three of them had their differences, but Malcolm knew that Eamon would react strongly to any conspiracy that would upset the balance in this delicate post-Blight and post-civil war time. Assassinating the Warden Commander and Arl of Amaranthine would definitely fall within that description. 

Alistair sighed. “We’ll have to include him, won’t we?”

“Probably.” Malcolm idly rubbed at the two-day stubble on his cheeks. “Does Anora get along with him?”

“He _did_ help remove her from what she thought was her throne, remember? And he wasn’t nearly as nice to her as we were. So, no, she’s not really his biggest fan, which means she’ll most assuredly be our ally.”

“Do I have to be there?” asked Líadan. “I’m still of a mind to set him on fire.”

“I’m still of a mind to _let_ you set him on fire,” said Alistair, looking wistful. “How about the three of us meet with Anora over the midday meal tomorrow? She wanted to meet with you, anyway.” He glanced over at Líadan. “And you have to come to that meeting, too.”

Her eyes widened. “Me? Why?”

“It would be awkward, otherwise, with just the three of us. With you there, I can pretend it’s sort of a couples thing instead of an awkward meeting with my intended and my brother, as the two of them look at each other warily and I hope they don’t start arguing.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Couples thing?”

Alistair paled. “Oh... did you... did something happen? Something happened, didn’t it, and you’re no longer together, in that sense. Right. Why doesn’t anyone tell me these things? Sod, now I owe King Bhelen coin. I’m sorry I mention—”

“Nothing happened,” said Malcolm, trying his best to sound annoyed at Líadan baiting Alistair like that, but at the same time, it _was_ funny. It was nice not to be on the receiving end this time, what with the babbling to try and back gracefully out of a verbal misstep. And _King Bhelen_? Oghren and the others had dragged the dwarven royalty into this betting mess? He had half a mind to go and throttle Oghren.

Líadan outright laughed.

“That was _mean_ ,” Alistair told her. “I don’t know if it would be a good thing or a bad thing for you to be friends with Anora.”

That statement made Líadan’s laughter halt, and she gave Alistair an incredulous look. “You want us to be friends?”

“If possible.” Somehow, the King seemed even more uncomfortable than before. “I mean, I heard that’s the normal thing for people to want when it comes to their significant others. Honestly, I’d settle for you two not hating each other. But if you were friends, that could make things easier.”

“I’m not opposed to the idea.” Líadan settled back in her chair from where she’d sat up straight on hearing Alistair’s hope. “But I’m not sure Anora would be capable of it. She’s been raised in the nobility and might have the same problems that Eamon has with elves. And if it isn’t a racism thing, she could have issues with classism.”

“She _does_ have issues with classism,” said Malcolm. “Though, not entirely for reasons you’d think. It isn’t because she truly sees herself as better than others because of what class she belongs to. Instead, when she believes she’s better than someone, it’s because she believes she’s smarter. To tell you the truth, in a lot of cases, it’s true that she’s smarter. Anora is nothing short of brilliant in many regards. Her problem with classism, though, is because her father was born a commoner and made a teyrn by King Maric. So the noble families who’ve been nobles since the time of Calenhad and before often called her a commoner despite the fact of her father being a teyrn. It’s a defensive posture on her part, really.” He rolled his eyes. “And it’s stupid that the nobles whine about her being a commoner, because it makes it obvious that they aren’t very well-versed on their own history. Calenhad was a commoner. The son of a merchant who rose to nobility and eventually the kingship through his actions. People seem to forget that nobility isn’t just what family you’re born into—some would argue that nobility is something that’s very _lacking_ among those who call themselves such—it’s how you act. No matter what Loghain did in his later years, what he did during the Rebellion was nothing short of amazing. For a very long time, he deserved his title. To call Anora a commoner because her father had been, in comparison, only recently made a teyrn, diminishes everything Loghain did for Ferelden.”

“I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about that.” Alistair seemed more surprised than upset, something that indicated to Malcolm how far his brother had come with reconciling what had happened with Loghain during the Blight. 

Malcolm shrugged. “He was a war hero. I can’t forget that, even after Ostagar and the civil war afterward. My father, well, Teyrn Cousland, spoke of the problems within the Bannorn after he returned from court to Highever. It got to him every time he heard anyone call Anora a commoner because Loghain had been born a commoner. He felt they were brushing off Loghain’s accomplishments during the Rebellion. Loghain had helped free Ferelden, and Teyrn Cousland wasn’t about to forget that, or let anyone else forget. That...” Malcolm stopped to take a breath, remembering the Fall of Highever, but he forced himself to continue. “That’s what made him trust Rendon Howe up until the moment Howe ran him through. They’d fought together in the Rebellion. I suppose it’d be the same way with us and anyone who fought with us during the Blight. Like, no matter what feelings they might project, or even some awful things they might do, you remember them fighting at your side for a good cause, and then you overlook the danger they might be in the present.”

“So, if she isn’t racist, she might be able to look past the whole thing where I’m just a Grey Warden, and she’ll be a queen again?” asked Líadan. 

“Technically, she’s a teyrna right now, which is second-only to the king. No, I counted wrong. Third-only, since Malcolm is around,” said Alistair.

“She can be second-only all she wants,” said Malcolm. “I don’t mind.”

“Wait, no. Fourth-only.” Alistair counted off on his fingers. “There’s me, you, then it’s Fergus because the Highever teyrnir and Cousland family is older, and _then_ Anora with the teyrnir of Gwaren.”

“Doesn’t really matter. She’s going to be queen by Wintersend anyway. Which, now that I think about it, means Gwaren will be without a teyrn.” Malcolm pulled a face. “That’ll be fun trying to fill that empty slot.”

Alistair picked up the parchment with the list of conspirators, locked it inside one of his desk drawers, and then stood up. “We’ve got a couple months. I bet you guys are hungry. You missed dinner, you know.”

Líadan got to her feet as well. “Assassins, remember? They were Antivan, and that makes them excessively chatty.” She gave both Alistair and Malcolm a second look. “It surprises me that you two aren’t Antivan, really, with all the excessive talking you do.”

“You really need to stop spending time with Sten. He’s a horrible influence.” Malcolm got out of his chair and joined the others in the corridor. As they made their way through the palace and to the kitchens, he started to get antsy already. The palace felt far more claustrophobic than Highever ever had. The Landsmeet couldn’t convene soon enough, because once that was over, they’d be free to resume their search. Well, at least until Wintersend, when they’d have to return for the wedding. But between the end of the Landsmeet and Wintersend, they’d have freedom.


	66. Chapter 66

**Chapter 66**

“Calenhad was eventually sent to a distant cousin, a poor young knight named Ser Forannan, who made him his squire and dog-handler. As the tale goes, Ser Forannan and his squire became caught up in one of the wars of unity at the time: Arl Myrddin was a strong but generally disliked man who was making a bid for kingship. Forannan’s own lord, a young fool of an arl named Tenedor no older than Calenhad, was besieged by Myrddin’s forces at his castle, today know as West Hill. When Myrddin called Tenedor out to parley, the young arl asked for a volunteer from among the squires, someone who could masquerade as Tenedor in the parley party. Calenhad knelt before Tenedor and asked for the honor.

Much to Tenedor’s and Ser Forannan’s dismay, Calenhad immediately identified himself to Arl Myrddin. When asked by the arl why he was here, Calenhad explained that he had been asked to take the place of his lord. The arl said that he had planned to kill Tenedor—was Calenhad willing to die in his lord’s place, as well? Calenhad impressed Myrddin and his allies by saying that he was. Myrddin offered Calenhad a place as his own squire, but Calenhad refused, stating that if Myrddin had planned on betraying the right of parley, he was no man of honor. Myrddin’s allies laughed at that, and Myrddin himself conceded that Calenhad had a point. He allowed Calenhad to return to the castle safely and launched his final assault.

During the assault, both Tenedor and Forannan were killed, but Calenhad found himself in one-on-one combat with Arl Myrddin. In front of all Myrddin’s allies, Calenhad defeated the arl and commanded that he call of his armies. The arl asked Calenhad who he professed to serve now, if both his knight and lord were dead, to which Calenhad replied that he would do as his honor bade him to, for he had nothing else. 

‘You are not a man known for your honor,’ Calenhad said, ‘but I believe you wish to be. You allowed me to live once, and so now I do the same for you. Perhaps if more of our people lived by honor, we would learn to trust each other long enough to live together.’ And with that, Calenhad withdrew his sword.

‘I am humbled by your words,’ Arl Myrddin told Calenhad, dropping to one knee. To his allies he shouted that he now knew he would never be king, but he knew who should be. With that Myrddin pledged allegiance to Calenhad, whom he named teyrn and ruler of Tenedor’s lands.”

—from _The Legend of Calenhad_ by Brother Herren, Chantry scribe, 8:10 Blessed

**Malcolm**

It immediately impressed Malcolm that Anora voluntarily used—and even insisted on—using Teyrna as her title, rather than using the title and style of Queen Dowager and Her Royal Highness that she was entitled to use as Cailan’s widow. Instead, Anora identified herself with Gwaren and her work there. She had accomplished much in her teyrnir in the months since the end of the Fifth Blight, and the recovery of her people and lands had been remarkable. A small part of Malcolm wondered, with a bit of suspicion, if it was a calculated gesture on Anora’s part. She had, after all, been raised in the nobility and at court, and that sort of political training was essential. But when he sat back and looked at what she’d done in Gwaren—Alistair had kindly supplied him with reports and correspondence—his instincts quashed the suspicion. Even if it was a political gambit on her part, he couldn’t deny that she had done many good things for her people. If anyone had been born to be a monarch, it was Anora. Too bad for both him and Alistair that she had been born a Mac Tir instead of a Theirin. He suspected they’d all would’ve had an easier and happier time of it if she had. 

The meal hadn’t even been nearly as awkward an affair as Malcolm had assumed. Anora had changed, in a way, from how she’d acted with the brothers during the Blight. She wasn’t nearly as guarded, and he almost would’ve said she’d softened, if only a little. Oh, she was certainly still very _Anora_ , somewhat cold and detached, but even more than in their talks during the Blight, she seemed human. Part of it, he knew, was the situation they were in. Their meeting was almost a family affair, something where a person could allow more humanity to show. He knew that he and Alistair, who pretty much always threw protocol to the wind, helped engender that atmosphere. Líadan had been more cautious at first, and almost uncharacteristically quiet, before she finally left the caution behind and joined the brothers in their banter. Dinner had finished with the three of them sharing grins, and Malcolm thought he _might_ have seen the hint of a smile on Anora’s face. 

Maybe she would be okay for his brother, then, if she was truly willing to try to make it at least a little more than a purely political marriage. Alistair deserved something more than that. He deserved warmth and not coldness. If Anora could display a tiny bit of warmth between the four of them, perhaps there was hope for whatever happened between her and Alistair. At the very least, he hoped she would be kind. And if she wasn’t, well... he’d have things to say about that.

The large table had been cleared, and then they’d adjourned to Alistair’s study. The King had already told Anora most of the situation, but she’d yet to have a chance to read the list of conspirators. Alistair had handed her the list straight when they’d sat down in the study. Almost as soon as she’d started reading, her eyes widened, and then a ghost of a smirk appeared on her lips. “It seems Bann Ceorlic is on this list,” she said.

Malcolm gave his brother a triumphant look. “See, I told you we should have killed him.”

“I thought you were joking. Well, mostly,” said Alistair.

“And I mostly was. But I’m not going to let a perfectly good ‘I told you so’ go to waste.”

“Perish the thought,” Líadan said under her breath. 

Anora, who had been looking between the two brothers in shock, turned to give Líadan a scandalized look of betrayal. Malcolm grinned as he glanced over at them. Anora’s face was _priceless_ , and Malcolm hoped he could astonish his future sister-in-law like that more often. After a few moments, Anora managed to ask the elf, “Are they... always like this?”

“Creators, no.” Líadan leaned back in her chair and shared a quick smile with Anora. Malcolm recognized the smile. He’d seen it before, during the Blight, when Líadan had conspired against the male Wardens with a little girl they’d found in Honnleath. Maker help him and Alistair, it seemed that there stood a chance that Anora and Líadan might well be able to become friends of a sort. “This is well-behaved,” Líadan said to Anora. “You’ll see.”

Malcolm leaned over, verbally jumping in to change something before they teamed up even more. “You’ve seen the list and you’ve heard the entire story, Anora. Do you think it’s enough to charge them with treason?”

“Absolutely. A plot on the life of the one lords with the right of justice in his land is treason.” She read over the list again. “Six named conspirators, two of whom hold bannorns. We should attend to this before any other business in the Landsmeet, especially when there will be a proposal put forth to restructure the Arling of Amaranthine. In addition to this list, we’ll need the Antivan Crows you hired, Malcolm. That was a good idea on your part, by the—”

“Oh, no,” said Líadan, “that wasn’t his idea, so don’t give him the credit.”

“Whose idea was it?” Anora asked as Malcolm glared over at his supposed partner.

Líadan didn’t look like she felt the least bit guilty. “Nathaniel’s. He thought it best to make use of them and recommended outbidding their current contract.”

“Nathaniel’s always had a good head on his shoulders,” said Anora. “I sometimes suspected that’s why his father sent him away to squire in the Free Marches. If he had been around when...” she trailed off before she directly mentioned the Fall of Highever. “Well, I doubt that would have happened. He is not like his father.”

“He doesn’t talk _nearly_ as much,” said Malcolm, attempting to bring the mood up after the near-mention of the massacre at Highever.

Líadan raised an eyebrow at him. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Mmm.” Anora handed the list back to Alistair, and then looked at Líadan. “I know exactly what you mean.”

 _Conspiring_ , Malcolm thought. _They are conspiring. I hate my brother._ _This was_ his _idea._ He rolled his eyes and didn’t answer the dig. It was bait and he _knew_ it and he refused to fall for it again. So he turned to his brother. “Are you announcing the engagement at the start of the Landsmeet, or what?”

“At the start, I think.” Alistair looked over at Anora. “Or are we arresting people first? I can never keep track of the proper order of activities when there’s treason to be charged.”

“Announcement first,” she replied. “Then arresting, and then the real business part of the Landsmeet.”

Alistair sat back in his chair. He’d brought it out to sit in front of his desk, a gesture Malcolm noticed as helping to make the meeting like one of equals, instead of the king and subjects. His attempt at levity having fallen flat, a slight frown settled on the King’s face. “We’re... we’re going to have to have them executed, aren’t we?”

Anora brushed at her gown. “Unfortunately, yes.”

He sighed. “I figured. Can’t let people think they can get away with attempting or conspiring to assassinate one of the arls or banns. I mean, we could end up like Orzammar if we let people get away with that.” His eyes widened. “Or Antiva! Yes, if we let them live, we’d be positively overrun by Antivans down here, all trying to get in on the action.”

“They certainly would,” said Malcolm.

Alistair gave a slight roll of his eyes. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Doesn’t stop it from being true,” said Líadan, who then glanced over at Anora. “Have you ever had to spend an extended period of time in the company of an Antivan? It’s an experience, I’ll tell you that much.”

“I was never afforded the opportunity. My father often spoke of Antivans much like he would speak of Orlesians.”

“With good reason,” said Alistair.

Malcolm grinned at him. “Well, you’ve a bunch in your employ now, so have fun with that.” 

“Along with the Antivans,” said Anora, forcing the easily distracted Theirins back on task, “the Wardens who met the Antivans will have to attend as well. They can stand with the Warden Commander and Nathaniel.”

Malcolm smirked at Líadan. “See, now _you_ have to go, too.”

She made a rude gesture in reply, which didn’t affect Malcolm in the least.

Anora forged ahead. “Malcolm will have to wait near the dais with me until Alistair comes in. He and I will make the announcement about the engagement, and once any comments have passed, we will level the charges on the conspirators. Hildur and Nathaniel will have to be briefed beforehand, of course, as will the guards. But it might move smoothly. We can hope for that much, and plan for the worst, just in case.” She turned to Malcolm. “And you had ideas about restructuring the Arling of Amaranthine? With Bann Esmerelle being charged with treason, the city of Amaranthine will be left without a bann.”

“Yes. But, I think what I have in mind will provide a fix for that.” Malcolm then explained his ideas about the arling and what he figured should be done. She paid close attention to what he said and didn’t dismiss his thoughts at all. “In the end, I think it will work,” he finished saying. “And that might keep more incidents like this from happening in the future. Or at least make them happen less often.”

She nodded. “I agree. It’s a fine plan. I can see that Bryce taught you well.”

“Alistair should’ve had the same opportunities that I did.” He appreciated the compliment directed at the late Teyrn Cousland, but for some reason it brought back the bitterness he felt that Alistair had been denied the same sort of upbringing by Arl Eamon. Alistair was the King now, and while he’d learned a significant amount since he’d assumed the throne, he hadn’t the depth of education that he and Fergus had received, and theirs had been given as teyrn’s sons, not princes. 

“I did,” said Alistair. “Just... much later than you. Besides, the work with the alienage was all mine. I had to argue with all the nobles about that while you were off at Weisshaupt.”

“True.” Even now, Malcolm felt surprised that Alistair had pulled that off without anyone’s help, even his chancellor’s. 

“It was a remarkable piece of work,” said Anora. “It’s what I thought of when I was trying to decide whether or not to accept your proposal to me.”

Alistair’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You’re actually calling that letter a proposal?” He blinked, as if thinking it over. “Well, I mean, _technically_ it was a proposal. But... it was... more of an offer? A... contract? No. No, no. Wrong words, too. But, if that was my proposal, it was horribly unromantic.” His fingers tapped at his chin. “Can’t have that. This would be my only marriage, I’d like to think, and even if it’s really starting out as more of an arrangement, I have to do better than that.”

Anora stared at the King as if he’d suddenly grown three heads, yet under her normal detachment, Malcolm could see a hint of softness in the look, just around her eyes. Part of her, he realized, wanted this marriage between her and Alistair to be more than just cold, stark business. “You don’t have to—” she started to say.

Malcolm stood up, not wanting them to stop their chat, but at the same time, not willing to sit and listen to it. Alistair was his _brother_ , and, well, hearing all about whatever they wanted to discuss would be rather more than awkward. Apparently Líadan agreed, because she was on her feet as well. Malcolm looked back and forth between Alistair and Anora. “Líadan and I will go talk to Hildur and Nathaniel about the Landsmeet. You two do... whatever it is that engaged people do.” Before either could object, he slipped through the door and into the hallway, Líadan right behind him, and not-very-successfully stifling a laugh.

They quickly strode down the hallway before the elf’s laughter fully broke through and disturbed the King and his intended. By the time they reached the entrance to the wing attached to the Grey Warden compound, Líadan was in a full giggle fit, and Malcolm had been infected by it and was doubled over. Just the _idea_ of Anora being some kind of romantic struck him as absolutely amusing and he couldn’t get it out of his head. “I think...” Líadan said between laughs, “I think I like her when she isn’t hiding who she really is.”

Malcolm leaned against the wall and brought his breathing under control. “She has to do that a lot, with her position. With how she grew up, really. Nobles really aren’t the forthcoming sort—it’s too dangerous for them, most of the time. People would take advantage and she would lose hers.”

“But you, Alistair, and Fergus aren’t like that.”

“Fair point. But... the three of us aren’t very good examples for what I was trying to explain. We’re aberrations, really. Alistair is the King, and a strong one, so he doesn’t have to worry about what people think, not when he knows they’ll mostly agree with him anyway. People know I’ve no wish to succeed him in his place, and with being a Warden, I don’t have to worry about being political, not usually. Fergus, as the teyrn of Highever, is second only to the Crown. He doesn’t have to concern himself with getting ahead politically, because he already is. He was born into that privilege and can afford to be himself, for the most part. The other thing is that you also _know_ us. We’re not quite as forthright about our more vulnerable feelings around random nobles or other people like we are with you. It’s that whole you pretty much being part of the family thing. You get to see sides of us that other people don’t. And Anora doesn’t know quite yet if she can entirely trust us. Not everyone who acts as we do believes like we do. Other nobles, people like Rendon Howe, they would betray someone in an instant. That’s what Anora is used to dealing with. It’ll take her some time.”

She sighed. “Have I ever told you that humans are strange?”

“Several times. I do wonder, though, if _Elvhenan_ was anything like this, back when it was all elves. It couldn’t have all been happy halla and rainbows and kittens all the time.”

Her arms folded over her chest. “What? You’re saying elves aren’t perfect?”

“I would never insinuate such a thing. Like any other man, I value my life.”

“Well, the ancient elves weren’t. Not from what I’ve read.” The humor disappeared she became wistful, her eyes once again holding the disappointment and apprehension she’d expressed when they’d discovered the involvement of the Arlathan elves and blood magic. “Since I was a child, I was told stories about Arlathan, and it all sounded so wonderful. But the more I read from that book, the more I wonder if it was that far different from human or dwarven society. They lived longer, yes, but other than the slowed pace of life, I really think they lived much the same way. People—elven, dwarven, human, qunari—just aren’t _all_ consistently good. Still, it’s a little painful to see your childhood heroes made to look mortal.”

“Technically, your childhood heroes were still pretty much immortal.”

She frowned at him. “You know what I meant. Not... so hero-like anymore. Just people.”

“I think a lot of Ferelden children got a harsh dose of reality with Loghain. Good thing Dane and Hafter are safely ensconced in myth or I’d just give up on heroes altogether.” He pushed himself off the wall. “Okay, this is getting depressing. Let’s go tell Hildur and Nathaniel the fantastic news about the Landsmeet. And see the Antivans. They’re always good for cheering one’s mood.”

The night before the Landsmeet, Alistair hosted a proper dinner for the Wardens and a few of the more prominent nobles and their guests. Malcolm struggled through it, finding himself growing more and more bored, and looking less and less forward to the Landsmeet they’d start in the morning. Líadan had been hesitant about attending the dinner at first, until he pointed out that the other Wardens were going to be there, so she’d have nothing to worry about. Besides, what did she care about what a bunch of humans thought of her, anyway? She’d mumbled something about what those human nobles could do with their opinions, and hadn’t voiced another objection since. 

The party—because, if he was honest, this was just like many dinner parties Teyrna Eleanor had conducted—had almost drawn to a conclusion, with people milling about and clumping in small groups to chat. He resisted a rueful grin. Gossip, not chat. They were totally gossiping. Líadan had disappeared some time ago, and while he wanted to make his getaway, he certainly couldn’t just leave without her. She’d kill him, and that would be the nicest reaction she’d have. He looked around the room again, and saw that Alistair was missing, too. Well, if the two of them were chatting, he very much wanted in on _that_ conversation. There were several incriminating or embarrassing things she could be telling his brother right now and he really wanted to put a stop to that if he could. He found Anora speaking with Fergus and Nathaniel. “Did you see where Alistair and Líadan went?”

She motioned toward one of the side doors. “She wanted to talk to him about something. Last I saw, they headed through there.” A frown marred the composed features of her face. “But that was some time ago.”

He grasped at her elbow, realizing for the first time that the once and future queen wasn’t as tall as he’d thought. Funny. That reminded him of Líadan. She always came off as far taller and more imposing than she really was. “Come on, let’s go see what they’re gossiping about, then.” He’d decided, over the past few days, to just start treating Anora like he would a sister. Perhaps one day it would get through to her that it’s what he would accept her as, if she would accept the honesty from him. 

Anora gave him a surprised glance, but walked beside him without complaint. They went through the door and found Alistair standing on the other side, staring down toward the end of the corridor. There, near the other exit, Líadan was shouting at someone whom Malcolm recognized to be a minor lord from the southern bannorn who’d accompanied his brother to the party. Gunnar was at Líadan’s feet and throwing in his own growls for good measure.

Malcolm raised an impressed eyebrow, and then looked at his brother, wondering how long this had been going on and if it needed to be stopped. “Why is she yelling at him?”

“He called her a knife-ear, among other things. I think he thought we wouldn’t hear him.” The dark expression on Alistair’s face communicated just how disinclined he was to stop the chewing-out the minor lordling was getting from the Dalish elf.

“Oh.” Malcolm turned to look at the pair down the hall once more. “Have at him, then.”

“He did what?” asked Anora. “Alistair, what exactly did he say?”

Alistair squirmed, suddenly looking uncomfortable on top of being irritated. “I really don’t want to repeat what he said.”

“If I am going to go over there and upbraid him, I need to know what he said. He is one of the banns sworn to Gwaren. His conduct is partly my responsibility, and I will not have vitriol and slander spread about the Grey Wardens.”

The King sighed. “He said, ‘There’s that knife-eared whore who is taking the place in the prince’s bed that should have belonged to my sister.’ I don’t know why he would assume something like that. I don’t think we even know who his sister is.”

Anora fixed a cold-eyed glare on the man down the corridor. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

“Okay,” said Malcolm, “I’ll say it. She got that look from Loghain. So... you might not want to piss her off, or she’ll give _you_ that look, and then you’ll end up associating your wife with her father and that would be bad.” His mind struggled for another joke as he fought the rising anger over what the lordling had said. He’d _known_ this could, even would, happen, but hadn’t been as ready for it as he thought. He was, however, surprised at Anora’s reaction and immediate jump to both responsibility and defense. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Alistair went quiet, and both brothers watched as Líadan continued to yell, Anora now at her side and not disagreeing with a single thing she said. The King crossed his arms. “You know, that’s one thing different between Líadan and Morrigan.”

“One... has pointy ears?” It seemed his brother was also going to try to deflect with humor, and had decided Morrigan somehow made a good subject for it. Malcolm was somewhat willing to play along. Depending.

“One yells a lot more.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow.

“Not like _that_ , Maker’s breath. I meant when she’s mad. Líadan gets worked up, and then yells. After she yells, she’ll usually let it go. Morrigan, though, she held a grudge, and she was _sneaky_. Remember that time with your tea?”

He groaned and ran his fingers over his face. During the Blight, at some point, he’d done something to irritate Morrigan. To this day, he couldn’t figure out what it had been. But she’d taken to getting even with him by finding the smallest ways to irritate him. He clearly remembered trying to get the truth out of her when he’d said to her one morning, _“If you could stop freezing my tea and tell me what I’ve done, that would be awesome.”_ Because, really, drinking frozen tea was impossible, and it had been especially cold that morning, and the tea was supposed to be hot.

She’d merely given him one of her thousands of inscrutable looks and replied, _“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”_

Alistair had a point. Líadan would’ve yelled at him, punched him, hit him with lightning, or all of the above, depending on what he’d done. He felt a laugh bubbling in his chest, and realized that Alistair had done an impressively good job in lightening the mood. At the other end of the hallway, Líadan had finally stopped yelling and stepped aside to let Anora admonish the man with more official terms. He caught snippets of _rights_ and _privileges_ , along with _removed_ and _revoked_. She wasn’t messing around. 

Gunnar gave up on the threatening growls and trotted back down the hallway to join the brothers. Malcolm bent down to pet him, giving the dog a strong rub behind the ears for his good work. “Though, I really think you could’ve torn that guy apart if you’d wanted to,” he told the dog. Gunnar huffed and went to lick the prince’s face in return. 

As Malcolm fended off his mabari’s affections, he heard Líadan say from above them, “If anyone gets a chance to beat the guy senseless, it’s me. If Gunnar wants to deal any damage to him, he can wait in line.” Her words were tough, the same as the shouting had been earlier, but he thought he heard a quaver in there somewhere, something that he would pick up on, but probably not anyone else. Well, anyone else alive. Riordan and Fiona probably would’ve noticed.

He looked up and saw how troubled she was behind the anger still writhing in her eyes, confirming what he’d thought he’d heard. “That bad?”

She met his gaze for a brief moment before tightly shutting her eyes, her hands balling into fists. “I need to go hit something. And if I don’t go soon, it’ll be him. You can come with me or not, I don’t care.” With that, she opened her eyes, brushed past him and Alistair and into the room beyond, heading for the first exit to the rest of the palace.

As Malcolm slowly stood up, weighing whether he should go after her right way, or whether it would be safer to let her pound the stuffing out of a dummy in the Warden training yard first, soft footsteps approached from behind.

“She left?” asked Anora. 

“Would you rather she had stayed and taken out her frustration on that lord?” Malcolm asked as he turned from the open door to look at her.

“Yes,” said Alistair, glaring down the corridor at the lordling, who had now taken to studying his feet.

Malcolm started to object, but found that he agreed. With Líadan having stormed off, he was fast discovering just how quickly his temper wanted to become out of control. “Yes, well, so would I. Apparently, that’s not an option.” He reminded himself that he did to the man what Líadan had wanted to do and refrained, that she would _kill him_ , and that would be the least bad thing she would do to him.

“Alistair and I can take care of this man,” said Anora. “You should go talk to her.”

“You don’t think she’s a threat?” His question came out far more aggressively, and he had to admit, accusatory than he’d meant it. He’d _known_ this would happen, especially after the arguments they’d had with Eamon, but he hadn’t expected to be this blatant. Or insulting.

Alistair drew his hand over his face. “ _Malcolm_.” The way he said his brother’s name, he’d managed to sound a lot like Fergus. Malcolm ignored him and focused on Anora.

She lifted a pristine eyebrow. “A threat to whom? The only person she’s a threat to is standing on the other end of this corridor. If she’s refrained from doing him any physical harm thus far, I believe it’s fair to say she won’t be doing him any physical harm at all. If you’re referring to opinions that Arl Eamon and a select _few_ others hold, it would help you to know that I am not of the same mind.” Anora placed a light hand on Malcolm’s forearm, and dropped the volume of her voice a little. “And I’m telling you, as a woman, and as a... future sister-in-law, that you need to go talk to her. If you want to know about my opinion about her and you and the reasons as to why, that can all be discussed later. There are more important things to attend to, at the moment.”

Malcolm held in a sigh, fired another harsh glare at the man at the end of the hallway, and then looked at Alistair. The King jerked his head in the direction of the door, telling him to go. Then Gunnar whined, and the decision was made. “All right. I’m going.” He turned and left, listening as Alistair stepped out behind him and summoned guards to throw the young lordling out on his arse.

When he arrived at the training grounds, he fully expected to see her there, whaling on one of the various dummies, but she was nowhere to be found. From what he could see, the practice weapons she favored hadn’t been touched since early that morning, when they’d sparred with the other Wardens as usual. Next he tried the Palace’s indoor training compound, Gunnar sticking to his side, and found it to be equally as empty. “Well... damn.” Worry started gnawing away at the anger that’d been left from the entire incident with the lordling. She wouldn’t have left, that was more his thing than hers. She’d been armed and armored, as was he, the other Wardens, and even Alistair, so he doubted someone could’ve attacked her without anyone noticing the ensuing fight. Then again, if she’d been caught unawares, she wouldn’t have been able to fight back. Abducted or dead and... he started to wonder if this had been what it was like for everyone else after he’d gone with Astrid. If it _was_ , even just a little, he felt even worse about his disappearing act than before. 

Right. No need to automatically fall into a worried panic. She could handle herself. Maybe she’d just found somewhere else to beat the crap out of something. Or maybe she’d decided to go for a walk or whatever it was she did when she was trying to rein in her temper. But, that was the thing—she hit dummies with daggers or nearby trees with lightning to defuse her temper. She didn’t go for long walks. Well, she did when her feelings had been hurt at the same time, like back at Highever. He sighed and looked down at Gunnar. “Any ideas?”

The mabari barked, ran in a tight circle, and then loped partway down the corridor. A confused frown on his face, Malcolm followed. If Gunnar thought he could find her, it was worth a shot. He’d known how to find her at Weisshaupt, at least, when he’d run off and fetched her after Malcolm had gotten them good and lost. He trailed the mabari through the palace, earning a couple strange looks from passing servants. Minutes later, he realized where they were going when he heard some barks and snuffles before he’d even opened the door to the kennels and yard. He gave his dog an accusatory glare. “You’re leading me to see the other dogs? Really? You couldn’t come here on your own after you helped me?”

Gunnar huffed, and to Malcolm, it sounded like an indignant one.

“Wait, you think she’s here? She isn’t the kind of person to kick puppies, you know. No matter how mad she is.”

The mabari growled, informing his master that he already knew that. Malcolm got the distinct impression that his dog was telling him to shut up and go find her. “Fine.” He sighed and shouldered through the door, Gunnar staying on his heels. Once they were in the main building of the kennels, Gunnar trotted off to socialize with the other grown mabari. Malcolm headed for where the puppies were. There were three litters in the Palace kennels that Alistair had told him about the other day: one newly whelped, one close to weaning, and one just weaned a couple weeks before. He found Líadan in the pen with the weaned litter, sitting in a corner with one brindle pup attempting to lick her cheeks, and with three others climbing over her outstretched legs. 

He leaned over on the low fence. “Oh, good, you aren’t kicking them.” When she didn’t answer or even look up, he decided he’d keep on with the humor unless she shot lightning at him.  “I mean, when you said you needed to hit things, the kennel wasn’t the first place I thought of. Though, being climbed on by puppies can brighten anyone’s day. Well, unless they pee on you. Then it’s a bit of a damper.”

She looked up at him then, one eyebrow slightly higher than the other, a corner of her mouth curling upward. “That... that was awful. That might be the worst joke you’ve ever made.”

“It worked, though, didn’t it?” He swung himself over the fence and into the pen. Careful to avoid stepping on any unwary pups, he dropped to sit next to Líadan. Two of the pups abandoned their efforts at climbing along her legs and scrambled for Malcolm’s lap. She had the right of it. The worry had mostly gone the way the anger did earlier—away. The third puppy joined its littermates in the assault on Malcolm’s armored legs. He laughed, remembering when Gunnar was this small. Small for a mabari, anyway. Most mabari were larger than most dogs by the time they were six months old. The ones with them in the pen were just over two months. It’d take them a year to reach Gunnar’s size, and another half-year after that to match his weight. It was hard to imagine, looking at the cute little bundles of fur, that they would grow up to be capable, at times vicious, warhounds. He even had trouble reconciling that about Gunnar, and he’d lost count of the number of times he’d fought battles next to his dog.

“I suppose.” Líadan held the squirming mass of brindle puppy away from her face. “I got lost and ended up here. I heard the puppies and it was downhill from there. They helped, though.” The puppy in her hands whined and she rolled her eyes and let him clamber up her cuirass. “We should get Alistair one of these for his wedding gift.”

Malcolm nodded. “I was thinking something along those lines.” If she wanted to talk about what’d happened, he’d let her start. Otherwise, it would be poking at newly healed wounds. That, and it was incredibly hard to be serious when surrounded by puppies.

“I think this one is a good choice.” 

He glanced sidelong at her and saw how the puppy in question had successfully reached Líadan’s face again. “Do you?”

“Yes. She’s tenacious. Determined. Good personality.” The puppy’s nub of a tail wagged madly at the compliment.

Malcolm resisted a snort of laughter and somehow managed to keep his face straight and voice even. “Technically these are already his dogs. Well, the Crown’s dogs.”

“If he hasn’t come down here to get one himself, it’s a gift if we just bring her to him. Yes, I think this one will do nicely.” She held the wriggling pup up again, close to her face, and the puppy resumed licking her chin. “We should get Anora one, too.”

“I’m not sure if Anora likes dogs.”

“She’s Fereldan.”

“That isn’t necessarily synonymous with ‘likes dogs,’ you know.”

“I think she’s a secret dog person.” Líadan motioned toward the brown pup with the white splotch on its chest gnawing on Malcolm’s boot. “That one.” The elf went to place the brindle pup onto the ground, but when she moved her hands away, the puppy growled. Líadan sighed and picked the puppy back up again, whereupon it immediately stopped its pitiful attempt at growling. “Fine, I’ll play with you some more. But, Creators, you need to work on that growl. It isn’t intimidating in the least.”

“Kind of like when you growl,” Malcolm said without forethought. “You think you’re all menacing and scary, when it’s really just kind of adorable.”

“I’m just going to pretend you didn’t just say that, because murdering you in front of all these puppies would be an affront to the Creators.” The brindle pup let out a little bark as if supporting her statement. “See? Even the puppy agrees with me. Alistair will love her.”

How he was going to keep quiet about this, he had no idea, but he was damn certain that this particular mabari had imprinted on _her,_ and would not be imprinting on the King. “Well, okay. If that’s what you want to do, you’re welcome to try.” In his head, he was already making plans for how they’d travel with the addition of a mabari pup.


	67. Chapter 67

**Chapter 67**

“They spoke his name in roars

Live gravestones, offering a beast’s bargain.

‘Die here, huntsman, alone

And forgotten, or take my place among the wolves

As I take your place amongst men.’

Thus a bargain struck,

And Dane the wolf pack served in wolfen form,

And the werewolf to his family sped, as Dane,

One year and a day all told.”

—from _The Saga of Dane and the Werewolf_ , 4:50 Black

**Malcolm**

They brought the squirming puppies with them to the morning meal, figuring they’d help put everyone in a better mood before they had to deal with politics. Anora had joined them, along with the Wardens being required to attend the Landsmeet, and even the Antivan Crow, Baltasar.

The puppies were placed near the King’s feet, earning them very curious looks from both the King and his intended. “Not that I’m objecting to puppies, but why have you brought them to breakfast?” Alistair asked, nudging the brown pup with his boot as she tried to climb over his feet to get to Anora.

Malcolm gave Líadan an expectant look. They’d brought both pups back to their room with them once it became clear that the brindle had no intention of being left behind. Líadan had thought it adorable, while Malcolm had been despairing, eventually speaking with the kennelmaster once Líadan had started toward their room. The Tranquil man had immediately commented that the brindle had imprinted on the elven Warden, to which Malcolm had nodded miserably. 

“At least you know how to train them, so you can work with her,” the old man said.

No comfort, there.

He hadn’t told her yet, obviously, since she still seemed to think that the brindle would make a find wedding gift for the King. Except that last night had been an _interesting_ one to say the least, with the brown pup happy to curl up next to Gunnar in front of the fire, while the brindle had insisted on sharing the bed. He wouldn’t have minded, not that much, but the pup had also taken exception to him. As in, she did not like it when he had more attention from Líadan that she did. Malcolm disagreed, especially after the pup bit his ear when he tried to kiss Líadan. The nip had led to piteous attempts at barking and growling from the pup, scowls from him, and uproarious laughter from Líadan. He couldn’t exactly have a chat with the pup yet, since Líadan was still under the impression that they’d be passing her along to Alistair. Malcolm knew different, and knew that later today, he’d be having a little talk with the pup. Gunnar, he knew, would also eventually step in, and communicate with the younger dog with whatever communication methods they used among their kind. 

For now, though, the brindle stared at Alistair, and Alistair stared back at the brindle, while the brown pup had jumped up to Anora’s lap.

“Bonding, I mean, wedding gifts,” Líadan said, kneeling down and pushing the brindle gently towards the King. “For you and Anora.”

“They are—” Anora started to say, but was interrupted by the brown pup licking her chin, which bring a rare, full smile to her face. “Perfect.” Then she turned her attention directly to the pup wriggling in her hands. “You shall be Adalla, I think, after a wonderful mabari my father had as a boy.”

The pup barked in agreement, and Adalla had her name and her imprinted master. Malcolm let go of a slight sigh of relief. At least the future queen’s pup had imprinted on _her_ , so they’d had luck with that. Plus, he’d been right about Anora being a dog person. “Totally called that one,” Malcolm said out loud.

“Called what?” asked Alistair.

He inclined his head toward the woman sitting next to the King. “Anora being a dog person.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “She’s _Fereldan_.”

Líadan nodded. “That’s what I said, but Malcolm insisted that not all Fereldans are dog people just because they’re Fereldan.”

“It’s true,” said Anders. “I’m a cat person, myself.”

“Oh, I’d forgotten about Mister Wiggums,” said Líadan.

Anders raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “How could you forget about a cat who killed a few demons?”

At the same time, Nathaniel asked, “You had a cat named _Mister Wiggums_?”

“What do you think I should’ve called him? Frederick?”

“Even for a dog, that’s a pretty bad name,” said Sigrun.

Nathaniel sighed. “There are worse names, I suppose.”

“Indeed,” said Baltasar. “I once knew a man with the name of Bartholomew. Hideous choice in appellations.”

Alistair glanced down at the puppy Líadan was still trying to get to climb into the King’s lap. “Hmm. I don’t know, maybe it isn’t so bad. What do you think, pup? Bartholomew?”

The brindle whined and cast a woeful look at Líadan.

“She’s a girl and, not only is Bartholomew a horrible name, it’s a boy’s name,” Líadan told the King. “You really need to think of another one.”

Alistair stood. “Well, that could take some consideration, then, to properly name a mabari. Let me think it over.”

“You do that,” Malcolm said, and turned his attention to his meal. _For all the good it will do you_ , he didn’t say.

At the end of the meal, the guests started trooping out, heading straight for the Landsmeet chamber. Líadan went with the Wardens, and instead of staying behind with the King, the brindle trotted right after the elf. Alistair stared at the pup in shock, and then gave Líadan an accusatory look. “You stole the King’s mabari!”

Líadan spun on her heel, confusedly looking between the pup and the King. “I didn’t steal her! She’s right here.”

Alistair pointed. “You did! You did so! Look at her!”

The elf had taken a knee to encourage the pup to return to the King, but the pup had refused. Instead, she was crawling back into Líadan’s arms and whining whenever Líadan pushed her forward. “I don’t understand.”

“She’s imprinted on you.” Anora rose gracefully from her chair, Adalla now at her heels. “Honestly, she probably imprinted on you the moment she saw you.” She looked from the brindle to Malcolm, her eyes slightly narrowed. “Someone should have recognized that right away, being as familiar with mabari as he is.”

“I—”

Líadan glared up at him. “You _knew_?”

“You were just so excited about giving Alistair and Anora mabari—”

“You knew! You know what, I’m glad I told your brother a few incriminating stories the other day. I’d been feeling slightly guilty about it, but now I don’t at all.” She sighed, and then turned her attention to the mabari pup trying to reach her face. “What will I do with you?”

“Train her,” said Nathaniel. “It’s a fine thing indeed, to have a mabari imprint on you.”

Líadan gave Alistair an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. I tried.”

Alistair pulled a sad face. “Everyone else gets puppies. I see how it is. People who say it’s good to be the King obviously have no idea what they’re talking about.”

“As fun and interesting as puppies are, we’ve a Landsmeet to conduct,” said Anora. 

Malcolm glanced over at Gunnar and asked him to escort the pups down to the kennel for the time they were in the Landsmeet. 

Baltasar raised an eyebrow. “Your dog is smart enough to understand and execute that command?”

“Of course he is. He’s a mabari,” Malcolm said, watching as Gunnar rounded up the two pups and led them out the door. 

“Come on, Wardens,” said Hildur, “this show’s over. Next one starts in the Landsmeet chamber in a few minutes.” Then she went through the door, the rest of the Wardens following her. Líadan went with them after throwing another glare at Malcolm. He sighed, and then trailed behind with Anora. Alistair would make his own entrance later, as they’d planned. 

“I noticed that you, Alistair, and all the Wardens have chosen to be armed and armored,” Anora quietly said to him as they walked together towards the Landsmeet chamber. 

“Well, you know, charging people with conspiracy and arresting them could lead to fighting. Or it’s the fact that this is Ferelden, and you and I both know how little banns will go to war with each other over. Best not take any chances.” He glanced over at her. “Why? I know you aren’t wearing armor, but are you saying you haven’t a weapon, either? Do you want a dagger?”

She gave him a slight smirk. “I didn’t say I didn’t have a weapon.”

“The more time I spend around you, the more I realize you’re far more fun than I first thought.”

Her smirk grew wider, but then she asked, “Do you always say everything that pops into your head?”

“Not all the time. Just most of the time. I promise I’ll behave in the Landsmeet.” 

And he did. He kept a straight face through Alistair’s announcement of his and Anora’s engagement and pending wedding at Wintersend. He also managed not to glare over at Bann Esmerelle, who looked like she’d just swallowed a toad. Once the congratulations had quieted, Alistair moved things along briskly, and went straight for the first serious matter of the Landsmeet. He made a subtle motion with one of his hands, which brought a contingent of guards into the room, pushing through the crowd to stand by twos beside each of the conspirators whom Baltasar had named.

“What is the meaning of this?” shouted Esmerelle, sounding remarkably indignant.

“You, Bann Esmerelle of Amaranthine City,” said Alistair, projecting his voice—which Malcolm noted was his righteous anger voice and took a moment to wink at Líadan, who blushed and looked assiduously away—forcefully across the entire chamber, “along with Bann Ceorlic, Lady Liza Packton, Lady Morag, Lord Guy, and Ser Timothy, are charged with treason for conspiracy to kill a duly appointed arl with right to high justice in his land. Evidence and witnesses have been brought forth, and you will be arrested and held until such time that your sentence can be levied upon you for your conspiracy and attempts to kill Riordan, late Commander of the Grey and Arl of Amaranthine.”

“This is an outrage!” yelled Ceorlic. 

“No, it is history repeating itself,” said Anora. “Your father betrayed Ferelden. It seems his son decided to take the same path instead of following his own honorable one.” As Ceorlic continued to shout demands for true justice and evidence, Anora whispered to Malcolm, “My father always hated him.”

“Mine—Teyrn Cousland, I mean—was never a fan of his, either,” he whispered back.

Alistair called for silence. “I have evidence and witnesses, Bann Ceorlic. I have asked the witnesses to attend this session of the Landsmeet. Would you like them to step forward?”

“Nevermind the witnesses, for now. I would like to know why you’ve named Riordan as late, your Majesty,” said Arl Bryland. “If Riordan is dead, which would be most sad indeed, should not these men and women be charged with treason for the _murder_ of an arl?”

“I can answer that.” Hildur stepped forward to the rail from her place on the upper balcony. “Riordan died during a recent expedition to the Deep Roads and I have temporarily taken his place as Warden Commander. The attack from a group of Antivan Crows hired by the conspirators happened on my convoy last week as my Wardens and I made our way from Vigil’s Keep to Denerim for this Landsmeet.” Baltasar started rapidly whispering something from behind Hildur, but she waved him quiet. Malcolm assumed he was objecting to the use of the word ‘attack’ to describe the confrontation between his Crows and Hildur’s Wardens on the road.

“News of Riordan’s death is most saddening and troublesome,” said Arl Eamon.

Malcolm stopped himself from narrowing his eyes at Eamon. The arl had sounded sincere, and from what Malcolm could tell, Eamon had liked and gotten along with Riordan perfectly fine. 

Then Eamon asked, “Was not the Prince with the Warden Commander’s convoy when the attack took place?”

Malcolm barely kept himself from rolling his eyes. Andraste’s flaming sword, would the man ever stop?

“He was,” Hildur replied. 

Eamon crossed his arms and looked over to where Alistair stood on the dais, with Anora and Malcolm standing off to his right. “Then these conspirators should be charged with high treason by matter of compassing the death of the King’s heir.”

“Does this mean we’ll start charging the darkspawn with treason, as well?” Malcolm asked under his breath.

“I swear to the Maker,” Alistair said to him, just as quietly, “if you make me giggle in an unmanly manner in front of all these people, brother, I will see you flogged.” Then he cleared his throat and directly addressed Eamon’s question. “Arl Eamon, would you like to levy that charge yourself?”

“After I have viewed the evidence and heard the witnesses, I would. However, I would recommend convening a different session in order to review the case of these conspirators.”

“Is that really necessary, Eamon?” asked Bann Sighard. “They’ve been charged with treason already, and the sentence treason carries is death, no matter which treason it is. They’ll go to Fort Drakon until they are beheaded as traitors.” He looked from Eamon to the King. “Do I have the right of it, your Majesty?”

Alistair nodded, and then turned to the rest of the gathered crowd of nobles. “The conspirators will be held in Fort Drakon until their execution by beheading in three days’ time. Guards, take them away.” It took a few minutes after the conspirators had been led away for the crowd to quiet down and Alistair able to address Eamon again. “Arl Eamon, if you wish to go through the evidence yourself in order to levy an additional charge, you may do so.”

Eamon ducked his head in a slight bow. “Thank you, your Majesty.”

“What will happen with the Bannorn of the City of Amaranthine?” asked Bann Alfstanna. “Esmerelle had no children or appointed heirs.”

“Your turn,” Anora said to Malcolm.

He sighed and stepped forward. “I have a proposal that will deal with that,” he said, and then waited for the mutters to die down. This would be the first time he’d spoken this much—officially—at the Landsmeet. “As it stands, the Arling of Amaranthine belonging to the Grey Wardens is a problem. While the Arling’s seat of Vigil’s Keep is indeed a strategic fortress, the Arling itself has, through its long history, taken on having banns and freeholders swear allegiance to it as if it was a large bannorn or teyrnir. When the Howes held Amaranthine, this wasn’t a problem. But when the Arling was handed over to the Wardens, the banns and freeholders sworn to it were not given a choice as to whether or not they would continue to follow Amaranthine’s banner.”

“No, they were not,” said Bann Loren. “While the traitors found today were influenced by Rendon Howe’s policies, I am sure some of their decisions came about because they were _required_ to swear fealty to Riordan, and not given the freedom to choose that each bann and freeholder is supposed to have by Fereldan tradition.”

Malcolm nodded. “Exactly. Traditionally, an Arling is just a strategic fortress and its immediate lands that are used to support the fortress, such as Redcliffe and the village of Redcliffe. Amaranthine, somewhere along the line, changed and became a combination of bannorn and arling. What I propose is this: we separate it once again.”

“And how would you do that?” asked Arl Wulff.

“Vigil’s Keep is most certainly still a strategic fortress, especially after having found a Deep Roads entrance beneath it,” said Malcolm. “As such, it seems highly appropriate for the Grey Wardens of Ferelden to maintain custody of the Vigil and its immediate farmlands. As for the rest of the Arling, I propose that it be amended to a Bannorn, and its seat moved from Vigil’s Keep to Amaranthine City.” 

Alfstanna nodded and smiled. “A fine plan, I must say, but that still leaves Amaranthine without a bann.”

Fergus stepped up to the rail. “I move to appoint Delilah Howe as Bann of Amaranthine in partial restoration of her family’s title.”

Gasps emanated from many of the nobles, and then Arl Bryland said, “You would be the first person I would’ve thought to object to that appointment, Fergus.”

“Delilah Howe is not her father, nor is Nathaniel Howe his father, for that matter,” Fergus replied, smiling warmly. “They have chosen honorable paths in their lives, and do not deserve to be the pariahs they’ve been made to be.”

“And what of the banns and freeholders currently sworn to Amaranthine?” asked Bann Loren. “Will they have the freedom to choose?”

“The freeholders can choose whichever banns they desire to give their allegiance to under this plan,” said Malcolm. “As for the banns, well, they’ve got either Highever or Gwaren to choose from, though I’m not sure about Gwaren, because it will be empty soon.”

“So what is the plan of succession for the Arling of Vigil’s Keep?” asked Eamon. “Hildur, you mentioned that you were the temporary Warden Commander. Do you have a more permanent one in mind?”

Hildur nodded. “Yes. Nathaniel Howe will be my replacement once he’s been trained. He knows the fortress and the arling, and his training as a squire in the Free Marches makes him very able to undertake the position as Warden Commander.”

More than a few people shouted objections. Bann Loren was the loudest, raising issues of too much power being granted back to the Howes if one was an arl and another a bann. Malcolm frowned. He hadn’t thought of that.

“And what of Gwaren?” asked Sighard, breaking through the shouting of the others.

Alistair raised his hands in a call for quiet. “Let us finish the discussion about Amaranthine before we attend to the question of Gwaren.”

“If I may?” asked Teagan, who waited to continue until after he’d gotten a nod of permission from the King. “I would recommend that the Arling of Vigil’s Keep be given representation in the Landsmeet, but not granted a deciding vote in the case of confirming a monarch. The Grey Wardens, as an organization, are tasked with defending mankind against the darkspawn and the Blight. With the Vigil’s position directly over a Deep Roads entrance, no better an arl or arlessa could be appointed to hold that fortress. We need the Wardens, that much we learned when we fought through the Fifth Blight. But, they do not need so much to participate in Fereldan politics.”

“No, we do not,” said Hildur. “Thank you, Bann Teagan.”

Alistair looked directly at Loren. “Does this appease your objections, Bann Loren?”

Loren seemed to consider his answer for a moment, and then said, “Yes, your Majesty.”

“Good.” Alistair gave the nobles a resolute nod. “Then the Arling of Amaranthine is hereby abolished, to be replaced with the Bannorn of Amaranthine with its seat in the City of Amaranthine, and attended to by Bann Delilah Howe. The fortress of Vigil’s Keep will be named the Arling of Vigil’s Keep, and custody will be maintained by the Grey Wardens of Ferelden.”

“Gwaren?” asked Sighard.

Alfstanna grinned at the other arl. “A little single-minded, are we, Sighard?”

He rolled his eyes. “Gwaren borders my lands, Alfstanna. I don’t wish to see any instability after Anora has finally brought stability back to the region.”

“We will need a new teyrn or teyrna of Gwaren, then, come Wintersend,” said Arl Wulff. 

“I nominate Bann Teagan,” said Reginalda, the Bann of White River.

“As fine a teyrn as Teagan might make,” said Sighard, “with the discovery and arrests of the Amaranthine conspirators, there will already be a few minor bannorns and two major bannorns left without banns. Moving a bann from a stable region to Gwaren could create yet another unstable region, something we sorely do not need so soon after a bloody civil war.”

“And just whom would you propose assume the teyrnir? Yourself?” asked Reginalda.

Sighard let out a belly laugh. “Certainly not. My own arling is enough to attend to, thank you very much. I was hoping that my esteemed colleagues of the Landsmeet might have another person in mind, someone who isn’t already overseeing a bannorn, arling, or teyrnir.”

“Oh, damn, because I really was hoping to have both teyrnirs,” said Fergus, sending laughter through the crowd. Every noble knew that Fergus didn’t seek more power or influence.

Malcolm ran through all the younger brothers and sisters of nobles he could think of, but came up with none would be capable or worthy of holding Gwaren. He looked over at Alistair, who shrugged. At least Fergus’ comment had stopped anyone from also commenting that granting a teyrnir to Teagan would give the Guerrins a bit too much power in the Landsmeet.

“I believe I may know of someone suitable for the position,” Anora said, moving slightly forward and drawing the attention of the crowd. “My current captain of the guard in Gwaren, Ser Cauthrien, would make a good candidate. She has been part of Gwaren most of her life. She loyally served my father until it appeared that he had gone mad, whereupon she swore her allegiance directly to Gwaren instead of only to him. She has the respect of the teyrnir’s people and soldiers, knows the land, and has the intellectual capacity to be successful in the endeavor of being a teyrna.”

“She is a commoner,” said Eamon.

“No, she isn’t,” said Malcolm, glaring over at the arl, not bothering to hide his annoyance on Eamon’s insistence on classism. “She’s a knight. That makes her nobility. Granted, a minor part of the nobility, but nobility nonetheless, and that’s what counts, at least for this.” He also knew that Anora spoke the truth—Cauthrien had seen the madness that had overtaken Loghain, as much as it pained her to recognize it in the man who had been her hero since childhood. He’d also heard many rumors that Cauthrien was Loghain’s illegitimate daughter, but nothing substantial had ever come of those rumors.

“There is also precedent for a captain of the guard taking over a teyrnir,” said Anora, who then looked over at Fergus. “The Couslands took over Highever after the end of the Elstan line, did they not?”

Fergus nodded. “Yes. I would agree to appointing Ser Cauthrien to be teyrna of Gwaren, provided that Anora be given sufficient time to ensure a smooth transition.”

Alistair looked over the gathered nobles. “Is anyone opposed?”

 _What he really means to ask is if anyone can think of a better idea_ , thought Malcolm, but he kept the thought to himself. 

No objections were made, and the appointment passed. The meeting then degenerated into squabbles and bickering and discussions over incredibly mundane matters, and nothing _nearly_ as exciting as conspiracies for murder, impending marriages, or even new banns and teyrnas. One hour passed, and then two, and then Alistair declared an end to the Landsmeet, since all the rest of the discussions were trade-related and could be conducted outside the formality of the Landsmeet if necessary. “That,” he said, “and I’m starving, and I know there must be other hungry people here, even if some of you deny that sort of common thing.”

Malcolm practically ran from the chamber, thrilled to be free from those obligations and ready to prepare for their continued search. They’d spend the next couple of days packing and researching, and then be on their way south to the Brecilian Forest and the Korcari Wilds, given that the clear weather held. Of course, that meant it didn’t.

It was a hard winter.

Firstfall became just that—the first fall of snow came with the month’s first morning. After the large amount of snow came the bitterly cold wind, a trend that continued from one week to the next. There would be a snowstorm, a blizzard, and then frigid cold. Until there was a break in the weather, they were trapped in Denerim, forcing themselves not to risk their lives in worse weather in the south, or the chance of powerful winter storms out on the Amaranthine Ocean or Waking Sea. Most of the Wardens returned to Vigil’s Keep, with only Malcolm and his companions remaining behind to run the Denerim garrison until the weather broke. They had killed the Mother, but lost track of the Architect. The darkspawn attacks had stopped, a winter’s rest from campaigning.

When the truth pattern of the harsh winter became apparent, scholars delved into books to research the cause behind it. Weeks later they presented the theory that it had been the fault of the Blight, the remnants of the Blight clouds left behind in the sky turning the weather into something far more harsh than usual. Without any alternate explanation, and records of a similar hard winter taking place after the Fourth Blight, the reasoning was accepted. And they waited.

Spring didn’t start to make an advance until a week before Wintersend, two weeks later than it usually did. Once the weather changed, Ferelden teemed. Templars and Tevinters, parties crisscrossing the country, seeking clues of Morrigan. All of Thedas bristled, waiting for the moment when the witch was found. All was done in silence and in secret, because until the truth was confirmed, no power wanted to risk outright war. But the near inevitability dangled above their heads as a sword from a thread.

And Malcolm was restless.

Wintersend arrived, in name and in spirit, and it was celebrated by the people with more enthusiasm than he’d ever remembered. He could finally see an open doorway to freedom of searching and traveling, and he tempered his impatience. Though this day had once been dedicated to Urthemiel—a fact that was a source of no end of amusement to Malcolm—he reminded himself that this was his brother’s day, and Anora’s, as well. While he hesitated to call her a friend, she had been friendly, and truthfully friendly, nothing of her treatment had been a ploy. She and Líadan, after the winter, had sometimes seemed close, spending more time together than Malcolm had ever thought possible. When Anora asked Malcolm to escort her down the aisle—she had no one else, she pointed out—he’d been floored, and even somewhat honored. While other people might look down on Loghain, Anora still kept her father on a pedestal, something daughters often did, or so he was told by others. 

That was how he found himself standing on a balcony of the Denerim chantry with Anora, just before the official wedding ceremony was to start. One of the helping Chantry sisters had directed him to her when he discovered he couldn’t find her, and he had no idea how he was going to walk her _anywhere_ if he couldn’t _find_ her. He stepped out onto the balcony after spying Anora, her forearms resting carefully on the railing, looking out over the city. She didn’t acknowledge his presence, not at first. He moved to stand next to her and kept quiet.

Eventually, she said, “The city is healing.”

“Yes, it is. You and Alistair are doing a fine job.”

“He is not what I thought he would be. I’ve found it a pleasant surprise.”

On hearing the honesty in Anora’s voice, Malcolm decided for some of his own, to make the request of her he’d wanted to make for some time. “Alistair will always be kind to you. I only ask that you be kind to him in return. You don’t... you don’t have to love him. That can’t be requested or demanded of anyone, but... just... kindness and respect. He didn’t grow up like we did, with parents, a family. He deserves something of warmth in his private life. If you two find that you don’t love one another, or can’t even be friends, just don’t lose the kindness.”

“I wish to be more than kind, if it is possible.”

Relief spread through him. “Thank you.”

Her next question was hesitant, something rarely seen with Anora. “He... he loved another once, did he not? The bard who traveled with you during the Blight? Leliana?”

He could almost literally see the stone walls of Anora’s detachment and standoffishness crumbling down, and he believed he saw the vulnerable, real person whom she guarded behind those walls. This was no act, no deception. “He did. She loved him, too. She...” He sighed and looked away, out over the balcony and the city below, as Anora was. “He had to help end her life. She was dying of the taint and she did not want to suffer. It was her final request.”

“It... that.. it sounds horrible.” He heard the genuine shock in her voice, and out of the corner of his eye, saw her look at him.

“It was. The entire Blight was.” He sighed again, and then turned to face her as he straightened up. “Just because he loved her does not mean he doesn’t have the capacity to love another.” His eyes reflexively glanced back toward the balcony doors, to the rooms beyond where he knew Líadan was. 

The action made Anora give him a small smile. “You speak of yourself, now. Not just your brother.”

He shrugged, feeling a bit sheepish. “I suppose. I didn’t think to experience it again, and it kind of snuck up on me the second time. She was my friend first and always will be. We’re a team. Morrigan will always...” He unconsciously put a hand to his chest for a brief moment. “She’ll always have a place in my heart, but Líadan owns it, whether I’d planned it or not. And whether she wants to or not, now that I think of it. Everything was just as difficult, if not more so, for her because she’s Dalish.”

Anora’s gaze followed Malcolm’s. “A misfortune of birth.”

His look snapped to the almost-queen at her comment that smacked of her classism at work, something he’d thought she’d abandoned. But, he reminded himself, benefit of the doubt. He stuck his foot in his mouth often enough, and perhaps her words hadn’t come out quite like she’d thought. Anora usually calculated everything she said—it was clear that heart to hearts weren’t her strong point. “What do you mean?” He couldn’t, however, keep the slight warning from his tone.

“Yes, that did come out wrong, didn’t it? All I meant was... had she been born a human noble, she would have been a fine one. Much like your foster father had been. He was one of the men, one of the nobles, whom my father did not look down upon, as was Eleanor, but they were of a rare sort. Even if she were only human, she wouldn’t need to be born into the nobility. She could have...”

“Could have what?”

It was Anora’s smile that was sheepish. “Been married to you, if you were both so inclined. There would be no talking amongst the nobility about you wasting your line, about how an elf is unsuitable for a prince, even if said elf helped end a Blight. I intend on putting a stop to such talk once I am queen and have more influence with the court than I do now. Some have listened to me as teyrna, but not all. And with women gossips, they tend not to hear the influence of a king as well as they would a queen.” Anora let out a small sigh. “Were Líadan human, she could have been a princess.”

A wry smile appeared on Malcolm’s lips. “She wouldn’t want to be one. She’d hate it.”

“I was once told that it’s the ones who do not seek the office or title who are best suited for it, given they also have the requisite intelligence.”

His smile turned into a full grin. “Always with the intelligence with you. It’s a good thing Alistair and I turned out not to be dullards like you’d thought.”

“To be fair, Cailan was a fundamentally good, gregarious, and often kind man, but he was not, so to say, one of the clever. You and Alistair both resemble him enough that I had once—a very long time ago—assumed you had a similar level of cleverness. I am happy to know, and see, that I was wrong in my initial assessment.”

“Thank you, I suppose. I will admit, though, that you are smarter than either of us. But Morrigan was also smarter than Alistair and me. Líadan, too. I heard that Queen Rowan was also clever.” His mind briefly went to the memory of his natural mother, and how intelligent and self-possessed she had been. “Perhaps Theirins just prefer strong women?” He made a face. “I certainly wouldn’t want to marry any of those Orlesian women from Celene’s court. They’re... wallflowers.” A description, he knew, he’d gotten from Eleanor Cousland. “Delicate. Even if they’re smart, they don’t _act_ like it. They don’t join in battles. They don’t even typically know how to fight. They’re just kind of... there. Boring decorations. _Orlesian_.”

Anora laughed then, a bright sound that made Malcolm realize perhaps she and Alistair really could get along. “My father would have liked you, had he gotten to know you. Alistair, too, in time. He viewed Cailan as a failure, a boy who never quite grew into a man of responsibility. But you and your brother, as boyish as you both act at times, have grown up. You know of myth and legend, yet you are capable of seeing and facing reality. I wish my father had lived to see that in Maric’s line.”

Malcolm took a breath in preparation for giving Anora his true opinion about her father. “He was a good man. Well, up until the business at Ostagar and after. I don’t know what happened to change him—and I suspect we’ll never know—but I wish he’d stayed the man he was instead of the man he turned into to do the things he did. At the very end, though, he was still a good man. A man who took responsibility for his actions, who meant well, and went to the Maker with his shoulders back and willing to look Him in the eye. In that moment, your father was noble again, in all meanings of the word.”

Silence fell between them for a while as Anora took in his words. Her eyes blinked rapidly, and Malcolm understood that type of onslaught of memory. Then she said, “Thank you. You did not have to say that.”

“I know. I said it anyway.”

She nodded to herself, a resolute and awkward subject-changing kind of nod. “Yes, I will have to speak with the court after I am queen. They would do well to remember and keep firm in mind that Líadan is a fine woman in her own right, just as you and I have said. She is a woman I consider a friend, and I will not have any slander or rumors levied against her.”

“You consider her a friend?” He knew the two of them had seemed to be getting along during the winter, especially when it came to dealing with their growing mabari pups, but hadn’t dared to think that they had become true friends.

Another nod. “I do. I... did not and do not have many friends, men or women. Making friends, as I’m sure you know, does not come easy to me. Yet, she reminds me of Eleanor, in a few ways, and of Cauthrien, in others. She is honest, and unlike the human nobility, I do not have to wonder where I truly stand with her. Perhaps, one day, she might feel the same way about me.”

“You could just ask her.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Would you?”

“Hmm. Point taken.”

A Chantry sister poked her head through the balcony door. “They are ready for you.”

Malcolm proffered an elbow for Anora to take. “Come on, you’re all right, I’ve decided. Let’s marry you to my brother.”

The ceremony, as Wynne pointed out to him as they exited the chantry afterward, was lovely. Malcolm considered it a good sign when, in the middle of the ceremony, Alistair had taken Anora’s hand, and she hadn’t batted it away. Malcolm, from his position near Alistair, had immediately looked toward Líadan, where she sat with the other Wardens in the front room to find her stifling a laugh. He quickly looked away for fear of making eye contact and bursting into laughter himself. He didn’t imagine the Grand Cleric—or his now sister-in-law—would’ve taken kindly to it. After the ceremony, there was a procession through the city, Alistair and Anora riding in an open cart, the Wardens riding just behind. Malcolm mentally prepared himself for the long day remaining. There was still a feast to attend, one that would go to all hours of the night, and he was expected to stick around for nearly the entirety of it. Once formalities had been taken care of, mostly consisting of a meal and dancing and sodding _toasts_ , Alistair and Anora could abscond to wherever, their obligations, at least to the viewing public, over. 

He almost found himself wishing for a darkspawn attack, just to end the feasting early. Almost, though. Not quite. He didn’t want this day ruined, as it wouldn’t really set a good tone for the rest of his brother’s marriage. That, and Wynne would _kill_ him, followed by almost everyone he knew if they found out he’d wished for something like that. No, best to deal with it and suffer through it.

“Aye, I’m not one for sodding soppy weddings, either,” Oghren said, dropping into a seat near him. 

Malcolm squinted over at where his brother and Anora were making their last farewells. He’d already said his. “I don’t think it was soppy. Wait, no, I was _told_ that it wasn’t.”

Oghren grunted, and then pressed a flask into his hand. “It’s a wedding. By definition, it’s soppy. And needs more dwarven ale.”

He considered the metal flask for a moment before it was snatched out of his hands. “I’ll take the dwarven stuff, you get the surface stuff,” said Sigrun, replacing the stolen flask with a mug of human ale. “One sip for you, and you’d be cross-eyed.”

“That isn’t true,” he said, immediately defensive. Then he remembered what’d happened the last time he’d had dwarven ale, and reconsidered. “Okay, mostly not true. Somewhat true.” Then he shut up and took a deep draft of the ale in favor of talking. 

“Exactly. Talk less, drink more,” said Oghren. “Lad’s finally learning.”

With Oghren and Sigrun’s encouragement, it meant that Malcolm had more than a little bit of trouble walking in a straight line when he could finally politely excuse himself from the remnants of the feast. Líadan went with him, not much better off, and giggling more than usual. Back at their room, they were greeted by a rather desperate-looking Gunnar, and an overly-enthusiastic six-month-old mabari pup. Líadan had named her Revas, which meant ‘freedom’ in Elvish. Sten had declared it a fine name for a fine wardog, and the mabari herself didn’t seem to mind. Malcolm decided the bed was too far away for a lie down, and ended up on the floor instead, entirely unwilling to stand up. Líadan rolled her eyes at him, claimed she needed water, asked him to stay there, and disappeared down the hall.

As Malcolm lay on the cold floor, the puppy growled and nudged at him. They’d come to an accord the same day as the Landsmeet, with the help of Gunnar, that she should not growl or bite him whenever he tried to get close to her mistress. However, she got free reign to try to play with him any other time she wanted, within reason. This, he realized, was apparently one of those times. When he didn’t move, the pup started nipping, growing more and more bold until she snagged the leather thong around his neck and tugged. The necklace popped off. Malcolm jumped, and saw the Warden amulet go flying in one direction to land, intact, on the bed. Morrigan’s ring bounced once, twice, on the stone floor, and then started rolling towards the door. 

He lurched upward—more dizzily than he wanted to admit—and gave chase as the ring continued to roll. After a few missteps and one inauspicious tumble into a wall, he snatched it into his hand. Grumbling mightily at the pup, he stalked back into the room. On entering, he discovered that Revas had eaten the leather. Unable to think of what else to do, he slipped the ring onto his finger for safekeeping.

Then he stumbled again, but it had absolutely nothing to do with the ale this time. He was certain Morrigan was thinking of him... somewhere. She felt regret, and sorrow. Malcolm stared down at his trembling hand.

But the ring told no more.


	68. Chapter 68

**Chapter 68**

“The twins Falon’Din and Dirthamen are the eldest children of Elgar’nan the All-Father and Mythal the Protector. The brothers were inseparable from the moment of their conception, known for their great love for each other. That is why we often speak of Falon’Din in one breath and Dirthamen the next, for they cannot bear to be apart, not even in our tales.

When the world was young, the gods often walked the earth, and Falon’Din and Dirthamen were no exception. Both were delighted by the many wonders of our earth. They played with the animals, whispered to the trees, and bathed in the lakes and streams. Their days were filled with bliss, and they did not know sorrow.

And then one day, while passing through the forest, Falon’Din and Dirthamen came across an old and sickly deer resting beneath a tree. ‘Why do you sit so still, little sister?’ asked Falon’Din.

‘Play with us,’ said Dirthamen.

‘Alas,’ spoke the deer, ‘I cannot. I am old, and although I wish to go to my rest, my legs can no longer carry me.’

Taking pity on the deer, Falon’Din gathered her up into his arms and carried her to her rest beyond the Veil. Dirthamen tried to follow them, but the shifting grey paths beyond the Veil would not let him. Separated for the first time from Falon’Din, Dirthamen wandered aimlessly till he came across two ravens.

‘You are lost, and soon you will fade,’ the raven named Fear said to Dirthamen.

‘Your brother has abandoned you. He no longer loves you,’ said the other, named Deceit.

‘I am not lost, and Falon’Din has not abandoned me,’ replied Dirthamen. He subdued the ravens and bade them carry him to Falon’Din. This they did, for they had been defeated and were now bound to Dirthamen’s service.

When Dirthamen found Falon’Din, he also found the deer, who once again was light on her feet, for her spirit was release from her weakened body. Both Falon’Din and Dirthamen rejoiced to see this. Falon’Din vowed that he would remain to carry all the dead to their place Beyond, just as he did the deer. And Dirthamen stayed with him, for the twins cannot bear to be apart.”

—from _The Story of Falon’Din and Dirthamen_ , as told by Gisharel, keeper of the Ralaferin clan

“Urthemiel was once the Tevinter god of beauty. In ancient times, he was worshipped by musicians, artists, and poets. The Feast of Urthemiel was the grandest celebration of the year, an event that lasted a full twelve days. Plays and entire symphonies were written in his honor.”

—from _The Old Gods Rise Again_ by Sister Mary, Chantry scholar, 8:50 Blessed

**Morrigan**

****Morrigan woke with a gasp.

Flemeth hunted her in the Fade. Each time she fell asleep, she was prey to her mother, who prowled and flew through the dreamer’s realm as bird and beast, searching for her wayward mortal daughter. Morrigan knew that at Sundermount she was vulnerable to a direct attack—had Flemeth found her in a place where the Veil was so thin, nothing could stop the powerful being from simply ripping through and taking what she wanted. So, they had left Sundermount as soon as they were able, and for Morrigan, it still felt like it hadn’t been soon enough. She’d assumed, as they continued northward to the Arlathan Forest and the long-extinct volcano of the White Spire, that her apprehension would quiet.

It did not.

Her dreams were no longer restful, and Flemeth hunted her with such tenacity that Morrigan wished for the relatively simple hounding of demons so that she could rest. Demons were easily dealt with, in comparison. She was not weak to them. But to her mother, she was weak, and she could not afford to turn and fight. Yet she could not flee, not entirely, because she required rest, even if it was fitful. She knew her countenance had become haggard, but there was naught she could do for it. It mattered not. What mattered was that she and her unborn children lived and survived, and one day return to forever deal with the problem of Flemeth.

The Dalish clan and Morrigan forded through the snow-fed waters of the Minanter river, squinted through the blustery sandstorms and blistering heat of the Hundred Pillars, and then found themselves at the edge of the worn mountain range, gazing across a giant bowl of green—the Arlathan Forest. They swept their eyes across the treetops and low-hanging clouds to see the acclaimed White Spire of the mountain of the same name soaring high above the thick fog. Their destination now ever within sight, they descended from the mountains and to the valley floor.

It wasn’t until they reached the cool shade of the Arlathan Forest that Morrigan realized who Marethari reminded her of—Wynne. That old Senior Enchanter of the Circle had been an old twit. A fairly accomplished healer, stubborn, and well-meaning old twit, but an old twit nonetheless. Morrigan didn’t think it boded very well for the Mahariel clan that Marethari was like Wynne.

“It won’t end well,” Morrigan said out loud to Lanaya as the aravel they rode rolled its way through the shadowed forest. She’d dozed off, an action she was succumbing to more and more often as restful sleep kept being denied her. The young keeper had been polite enough to not mention the gasp when she’d awakened.

“That was quite non-specific,” Lanaya replied. “I can think of several things that won’t end well. The blister on my foot, for example. But I imagine you have a more specific instance in mind?”

Morrigan raised an eyebrow. “If you have a blister on your foot, why have you not healed it? You have the ability to do so.”

“I will, in time. For now, it doesn’t trouble me all that much. But something is troubling you, my friend. What will not end well?”

 _My friend_. It was a term Lanaya had taken to using with her over the past weeks, one with which Morrigan was slowly becoming comfortable, though never quite entirely so. She sighed, already regretting continued fretting over the Mahariel clan, and yet... they were the extended family of one of the first friends she’d ever had. It was... normal... to be concerned for them, was it not? Yes, it was. “The Mahariel clan. If they stay at Sundermount, it will not end well. Not for Marethari, not for them.”

“Her people can leave and join other clans if they wish. It is their choice if they stay.”

Morrigan scowled. “Why are they so stupid to stay, then? Is Marethari not their keeper? Should she not be leading them to safety instead of encouraging them to remain in a place of danger?”

This time, it was Lanaya who sighed. “I don’t know. We offered them some of our halla, to help rebuild their herd, but they refused. They told Elora that it wouldn’t be the same.”

“That makes no sense.” The Dalish, Morrigan had learned, relied on their mutually beneficial relationship with the halla. They needed the halla to pull the aravels, and were far better suited to the task than any of the human-domesticated beasts of burden. They were also not the typical beast of burden—the halla were far too intelligent for that. The closest comparison Morrigan had come up with was the working relationship between a mabari and its owner, like she had seen with Malcolm and Gunnar. She would never admit it out loud, and certainly not within earshot of the mangy beast, but she did miss that dog. He’d been as lovable—and infuriating—as his master.

“No, it doesn’t.” Lanaya’s slight frown grew deeper. “Nothing there did. If she is waiting for her First to return, she will wait too long. The Merrill I remember from the last _Arlathvhen_ was as stubborn as her mentor.”

“If Marethari wishes to push the issue, she need not wait. She knows where her former First is. She lied when she said she didn’t.” Morrigan suspected that Lanaya already knew, but it felt good to say it, anyway.

“I gathered as much. But if she didn’t want her to be found, she wouldn’t have given her up. Like I said, stubborn.”

“I wish to have found the girl myself if only to inform her that she is making a wise choice in pursuing the power of her elven history.”

Lanaya gave the witch a slightly surprised look. “Even with the blood magic?”

“‘Tis a tool, like any other. Use it right, and there is no problem. Use it wrong, and you, and most likely several others, are dead. No, no different at all than any other abilities a mage possesses. It is worth the risk in order to recover the knowledge of something as powerful as the eluvian.” They were closer to the base of the mountain now, to where one of the last battles between _Elvhenan_ and Tevinter forces had taken place. Here, they were supposed to find history, knowledge, an eluvian, or clues leading to where one might yet still exist. Though Morrigan could immediately tell that this place was old, and that it was deeply touched by a powerful magic, she could not see where the ancient elven city might once have stood. That, she decided, did not bode well, either. “Do not mistake me for a common human chantry automaton.”

“I would certainly never do that, nor do I mean to imply it. What I meant was that you had shown a certain amount of disdain for blood magic, for entirely different reasons. I was not sure if use of it to gain the knowledge and power of elven history would meet with your approval.”

“You nor Marethari’s First need seek _my_ approval. I am no one but your _Asha’belannar’s_ daughter. Do what you will, I care not.”

Lanaya smirked, irritatingly reminding Morrigan of both Malcolm _and_ Líadan. “Some would say that it’s best to seek the approval of anyone related to _Asha’belannar_ , or run the risk of ending up hanging from trees in pieces.”

“Not once did I witness my mother tearing anyone to literal shreds, nor did I ever see her hanging anyone or anything from trees, aside from the occasional basket of laundry.”

“Yes, well, can’t hang them both at the same time. The innards would stain the clean laundry if the wind picked up.”

Morrigan stared over at the elf. “That is... revolting. Truly revolting.”

Lanaya chuckled lightly at her own joke, and Morrigan’s subsequent disapproval. They traveled for some time in a companionable quiet, the only sounds heard being the creaking of the aravel’s wheels, the muffled thumps of the hallas’ hooves, and the rustling of the broad leaves of the trees. The persistent fog broke momentarily, giving the quiet travelers another glimpse of their goal, still a couple days of travel away. As Morrigan contemplated the spire, she wondered if it really did hold any answers, any knowledge, or even, dare she feel it, hope. If the White Spire gave them nothing, she wasn’t sure what she would do. She’d been positive that the ancient elven knowledge was her escape, but now, with the birth looming ever closer and no real leads, she was beginning to doubt. 

“ _Asha’belannar_ hunts you in the Beyond,” Lanaya said.

Morrigan nearly jumped at the suddenness of the statement, though the elf’s voice tended toward a musical quality, she’d been startled nonetheless. Lanaya also possessed something that Morrigan had noticed tended to run in Dalish Keepers—they _knew_ things. They knew things they shouldn’t or couldn’t possibly know, and yet they did. It was a particularly annoying trait that Flemeth had possessed as well. Not for the first time, Morrigan wondered exactly what her mother’s connection to these people really was. “Yes. How did you—”

“Your nightmares. When you wake up, your hands move protectively over your unborn children, so it wasn’t too difficult to figure out. I had not thought _Asha’belannar_ one of the dreamers. But now that I think of it, it makes complete sense.”

“A dreamer?” Morrigan had thought herself familiar with most, if not all, Dalish lore pertaining to magic and the Fade. Once again, she was taken by surprise at the depth of history the Dalish remembered that humans and other elves had long forgotten.

“The Tevinters also called them the _somniari_. I learned this from what I’ve read in the Tevinter texts Marethari lent to me. They are people who have the ability to enter the Beyond of their own accord, without the use of lyrium or blood magic. Once in the Beyond, they can shape dreams within people’s minds in such a way that it can affect the world beyond the Veil. The Tevinters, they used the somniari to slay people in the dreams.”

Morrigan wasn’t surprised—though the Tevinters had been particularly daring, their plans, in the end, always seemed to lack a grand sense of scope. Were the stories of the Chantry true, the Tevinter Magisters had wanted to possess the Golden City, but they hadn’t given much thought about what to do with it once they had it. “Shortsighted and limited use for such a power, I would say, to employ it for mere assassination.”

“Dreamers rarely survived. They were a favorite target of demons, given the extent of their powers. I’ve not heard of one surviving past the emergence of their gift for at least two Ages, so perhaps that is why they never really used them for anything more ambitious.”

“As powerful as they are, I doubt that my mother is a mere dreamer. Her ability to enter and manipulate the Fade at will is just once facet of her being. A rather alarming one, certainly, but just one facet. I will need to determine ways of protecting myself from her while I sleep. I cannot go without, but every time I dream, I am at her whim, should she find me.”

Lanaya nodded. “I’ve been doing more reading, and I have some ideas that might work to misdirect her long enough.”

“Long enough for what? Simply for me to give birth? The time just after the children are born will be the most dangerous time of all. I will be at my weakest, and she would be able to simply pluck the one she wants from me.”

“Long enough for you to escape Thedas.” Lanaya finally looked over at Morrigan, her light eyes brimming with confidence. “And the Dalish will protect you and your children, always. There is no end to that obligation, even after you have left.”

Morrigan raised an eyebrow. “Left? Where exactly am I going?”

The smile the young keeper gave her was uncharacteristically enigmatic. “I... have some suspicions. Ideas. Insinuations and rumors I’ve stumbled over while reading, but ones that have been repeated enough times that they may contain a hint of truth about the real fate of Arlathan.” Her hand motioned toward the White Spire jutting through the clouds above. “I think we will find confirmation here, either way, and your fate lies with it.”

She sighed. Any information Lanaya had about Arlathan, Morrigan also possessed. If Lanaya somehow had extra insight or more confidence in what they found simply because she was Dalish, so be it. It wasn’t something Morrigan could conjure up within herself. “How will we misdirect my mother? Flemeth is normally the one doing the misdirecting. I know, as I have seen her do it.”

“When you dream, we will make you dream of what has already happened. They will be dreams she cannot exploit, dreams that will give no indication of what she does not already know. They will be from nothing of your recent travels, and nothing of what your mind projects the future to be. Chosen memories, as it were. But, they must not be entirely happy ones, or she will know immediately, should she stumble onto you. If she were to change the dream, you would know, and it would wake you up, keeping you safe.”

“It might work, for a time.” Morrigan frowned, her mind attempting to remember the dreams she knew Flemeth had influenced. Far too many dreams of late had guests of high dragons and Tevinters, and for both instances she wasn’t sure if it was Flemeth’s influence or that of the Old God’s soul currently residing in her body. Either way, they were disturbing. Once, she had even thought she’d caught a glimpse of Malcolm, but she hadn’t been entirely sure, and never got the chance to check, because Flemeth had found her and gone after her. She’d woken up just before Flemeth’s claws had crushed her wings, but only just. “For a time.”

“Time is what we need.”

That night, Morrigan started reliving the Blight, and for a time, it kept Flemeth at a distance as she tried different ways to subtly influence the memory-dreams. By day, Morrigan, Lanaya, and the Ra’asiel began their exploration of the White Spire and what the ancient elves had left behind in their flight from Tevinter’s armies. The ancient elves had also left behind a powerful guardian, one that took an unsuspecting Morrigan by complete surprise when she ran into it while in Lanaya and Ariane’s company. Were she ever pushed on the matter, Morrigan would deny the girly yelp that had emanated from her throat when the creature had dropped from... honestly, she wasn’t sure where the creature had been prior to its appearance. But appear it did, and she was none too pleased at not having been warned of the possibility. Though the creature seemed hostile—in fact, hostility and anger seemed to emanate from it—it did nothing but roar once, and then peer curiously down at them.

Morrigan finally recovered her mind enough to speak. “What is that?” She also silently thanked every deity she could think of that Malcolm had not been present to witness her initial reaction to said creature. It reminded her far too much of how the normally fearless and strong warrior tended to react to spiders, be they the normal, small variety or the larger ones found in the Deep Roads.

“A... a varterral? It can’t be, they’re only legend!” said Ariane as she stared up at the creature. “It is said they were rock and tree, wind and rain. Given form and breath by the elven gods to protect their people.”

“Specifically,” said Lanaya, with a quick glance at Ariane before focusing on the creature again, “the varterral was made by Dirthamen to protect a city of his from a rampaging high dragon. He called it into being from the fallen trees and bound it into the form of wrath incarnate, giving it a spider-like shape. The varterral defeated the high dragon, and from then on, it has stood in its vigil over the elves and their relics, even after they moved on to Arlathan.”

“Could this be the same one?” asked Morrigan. The creature, while certainly imposing and capable, did not look so capable that it could defeat a high dragon. If it were truly made as Lanaya had described, then it was composed of wood, and a dragon’s first offense was always fire. Morrigan eyed the varterral without fear as she measured its capabilities. Yes, fire would—

“Morrigan, you do not need to test its weakness.” Lanaya pointed at Morrigan’s upraised hand, which had conjured a ball of flame. “It will not attack.”

“It will not attack _you_. As I am not an elf, the same might not go for me. I’d rather not take any chances.”

Lanaya sighed, a slight, wearied sigh that Morrigan often heard her own mother use, and sighs she herself had used often when in Malcolm’s presence. “If it were going to attack you, it already would have done so.” She waved in the general direction of the varterral. “Look, even now, it has lost interest.”

Indeed, it had. The insect-like creature had turned its back on them and started to return to the shadows. Yet only once it had entirely disappeared did Morrigan allow the fire floating above her palm to wink out. “Why did it not attack me? Not that I am objecting, mind you, but I’m of a mind to know the reason behind its pacifism, if only so that I can continue to conduct myself in a way as to remain in the creature’s good graces, such as they are.”

“You must be elf-blooded,” said Ariane. 

“Or it has something to do with _Asha’belannar_ being your mother,” said Lanaya. “Though elf-blooded could also be a reason that the varterral would allow you to pass. They are... hard to judge. Most of the time, they will allow the Dalish to come and go to the sacred sites, but there have been a few... incidents in our history where they attacked for no known reason.”

A smile curled at Morrigan’s lips. “Much like Flemeth.”

“A varterral is a good sign, however flighty they might seem to be.” Lanaya started forward, moving further into the huge chamber where they’d been greeted by the varterral. “It means there are relics here it deems worthy of protecting.”

“Rarely would one name finding a dangerous and capricious creature a fortuitous event, yet I find myself agreeing with you. If something so powerful that it could, according to legend, defeat a high dragon is guarding this cache, then it must be worth the price of its defense.” As she followed Lanaya, Ariane trailed behind them, her hands never straying far from the grips of her swords. When they passed through a stone archway, the ground trembled beneath them, pitchingAriane forward, and sending Morrigan stumbling against the cool, rough stone that formed the cavern’s wall. The tremors from the ground traveled through the stone, through Morrigan’s gloved hand, and into her flesh. 

Lanaya turned as she braced herself against the archway. “Tremors. This is not good.”

“Earthquakes rarely are, even when caused by a spell.” Morrigan looked upward, studying the integrity of the rock overhead. “Especially when occurring around a volcano assumed to be extinct.” Her eyes moved to the keeper as her memories recalled prophesies related to a similarly-thought extinct volcano in Ferelden, just south of Denerim. “Has your history anything to say about the White Spire?”

“Nothing that I can recall hearing or reading.” The tremors subsided, and the group continued deeper into the tunnels, Lanaya remaining in the lead.

From the slight curve of the paths, Morrigan could tell that the tunnels did not lead deeper into the mountain, only around. This realization did not assure her in the least about the White Spire’s truly being extinct. While the danger here was certainly less immediate than the danger they’d faced at Sundermount, there was danger nonetheless. They would have to move quickly, and then make haste to camp elsewhere before she birthed these children. 

“I have found something,” came an unmistakably excited call from Lanaya.

Ariane frowned. “That’s rather nebulous.” But she picked up her pace, anyway.

Morrigan found herself agreeing. The two of them walked underneath another stone archway to join Lanaya in a chamber much like the first, except with one less varterral than the other. In the middle of the chamber stood—

“I think this is an eluvian,” said Lanaya. Her hand reached for the dull surface, but her fingers hovered just above touching it. Then she snatched her fingers away, as if recalling what had happened to Líadan and Tamlen. She pointed toward the pair of figures standing next to the arched mirror, one on each side. “One is Dirthamen, the other Falon’Din. One guides the dead to the Beyond, and Dirthamen, his twin, remains with him, because they cannot bear to be apart.”

Morrigan felt a twinge of disappointment in her chest—when had she allowed the weakness of hope to settle inside her body?—at hearing Lanaya’s words. If Falon’Din and Dirthamen stood as guardians to this mirror, what she hoped would be a portal, then it would only take them to another place Flemeth already prowled. “Then if it is truly a gateway,” she said out loud, making sure to keep her voice even and betray nothing of the bitter disappointment she truly felt, “it must only go to the Fade.”

“I’m not sure that it does go to the Beyond, not if my people somehow used these to communicate and travel between their cities.” Lanaya had knelt in front of the dais, still not touching its surface, and was reading the inscriptions on the statues instead of the frame of the mirror. “This one is different from the others that have been seen recently. It hasn’t been touched by the Tevinters. They haven’t replaced Falon’Din and Dirthamen with human figures of their choosing. This means it might not be broken.”

“After hearing about the young hunters of the Mahariel and their fates, I wouldn’t advise touching it,” said Ariane. 

“I suspect Líadan would agree with Ariane,” said Morrigan. Lanaya’s assumption did make some sense. Were it possible to travel to different places on Thedas by using the Fade, the Tevinters would have tried to exploit that long ago. Perhaps that had been their mistake when they captured and used whatever of these eluvians they could. They tried to attach them to the Fade somehow, breaking and corrupting them through repeated tries. Hope flared again, and doggedly remained, even as she tried to quash that dangerous feeling. “Studying it, however, would not be harmful.”

And so they studied, cross-referencing what they gathered from the inscriptions and other relics they found in the chamber with what they had in books and tomes at the campsite. The tremors continued as the weeks went by, the short, jarring earthquakes like they’d experienced at the beginning joined by different tremors that practically sang, sometimes for hours or days at a time. The halla reacted strongly to the second type of tremor, casting nervous looks at the White Spire and trotting nervously in their corral. While Lanaya and Morrigan both understood the clear warnings from the halla, they could not give up their study. The crafters and workers of the clan attempted to devise ways of drawing the eluvian out of the mountain’s chamber to where they could cart it to safety, but attempts proved ultimately useless. It was too large, and they didn’t know enough about it to try to take it apart. 

Another cache was found midway through winter—though, being from the south and the Korcari Wilds in particular, Morrigan found the winter in northern Thedas to be rather lacking in the cold aspect—one recording deeds and memories of a few who had stayed behind to defend the White Spire from the Tevinters after Arlathan had fallen. It also included accounts of items stolen from Arlathan and greater _Elvhenan_ by the Tevinters, among them were a number of eluvians. Some were destroyed by elven slaves, while others had their locations noted so that they could be destroyed before the Tevinters did too much damage either to them or with them. Tamlen’s death and Líadan’s fate as a Grey Warden were a sad footnote of how unsuccessful the ancient elves were at stopping the Tevinters from either.

“Arlathan did not fall,” Lanaya said one evening as they perused the newfound tomes together near the camp’s main fire. 

“Arlathan no longer exists,” said Morrigan. “That seems to point toward the fact that it did, indeed, fall.”

“Zathrian was right.”

Morrigan narrowed her eyes at the keeper. “I am not following. One subject did not follow from the other.”

“About the blood magic. The ancient elves did practice it, in amounts more vast than I had once thought. They... this is... I am truly shocked.” Lanaya’s hand had come to rest on the page of the tome she’d been reading, and her eyes looked upward, toward the darkening sky and the White Spire. “There was an initial attack that the elves fought off, taking many prisoners, hundreds, thousands, in the process. They used these prisoners to power a spell through blood magic.”

“Fitting, I would say, to use Tevinter prisoners as sacrifices for blood magic. What spell did they cast that required such power?” The ancient elves were proving to be far more resourceful and pragmatic than Morrigan had ever thought they could be, given the prevailing attitudes of their descendants.

Lanaya looked over at Morrigan. “They _hid_ Arlathan. They moved it to a place they called Setheneran. The Dalish had always assumed that Setheneran was a place where the Veil was thin, a waking-dream place. But instead... it is another part of our reality, like the Beyond and Thedas are. But Setheneran is beyond both places we know, that we can reach. Arlathan is there, even now. Hidden from Tevinters and humanity, hidden from the eyes of the Creators and all other gods, free of the darkspawn and the Blights. They are safe.”

“Then that is where I must go. ”

“Perhaps it is what the eluvians connect to, when properly used.” Lanaya’s gaze returned to the White Spire. “It would make sense, or at least make the most sense from what we know.” Her eyes opened wider, reflecting the available light. “Or that is where a properly powered and used eluvian would _go_. Without Tevinter interference or having been tainted by their meddling, a true eluvian could still be used to reach Arlathan. We just must do it _correctly_.”

The next morning, at dawn, their work began in earnest. The year turned to the new, Wintermarch stepping toward Wintersend, and Morrigan felt exhaustion tugging at her even as she worked toward her goal. She’d grown shockingly large, and climbing up to the higher reaches of the mountain to reach the eluvian became taxing enough that she reduced her visits to every third day. In the week before Wintersend, she stopped visiting entirely, finding herself falling short of breath far too quickly for her taste. Lanaya brought down what she could, and the craftsmen returned to studying ways of safely moving the eluvian from its chamber in the mountain. A mountain that was becoming more and more unstable, if the tremors were any indication. Their insistence on remaining at the foot of the White Spire was soon proving to be as stupid as Marethari’s decision to keep her clan at the base of Sundermount. But they needed to get the eluvian before they could move to safety, and so they remained.

That night, Morrigan dreamed of the end of the Fifth Blight. She was a wolf again, slinking in shadows at the outskirts of the fire’s light, between trees and and smaller campsites, hurting from the rejection she’d gotten from Malcolm. She had not seen that coming, could not have fathomed the young man turning her down. Yet turn her down he had, despite the pain it had caused both of them, out of a misplaced sense of duty he felt toward the Grey Wardens, towards Thedas, and in a way, toward her. 

She had not seen it that way, and the look she’d given Alistair had communicated that as she trotted away from their fire. Her goal was to recapture the soul of the Old God in an untainted form, as it was meant to be, as it once had been. For a moment, after the initial rejection, it had seemed a lost cause, but then she had realized there were other Wardens to call upon, that her mother’s predictions were not always entirely true. Flemeth saw what she saw, but even she was not all-knowing and all-seeing. If Malcolm couldn’t be convinced, there were other Wardens who could be, through guilt or love, or a combination of both. She had found her answer in the Antivan elf, convinced him, and completed her ritual.

Afterward, she had darted back to see Malcolm once more, remaining hidden in the shadows of the trees in the form of a crow—fitting, in a way. In the time that she had taken to seek out Zevran, convince him, and go through with her plan, Malcolm had not moved from where he sat at the edge of the cliff. As she perched on a branch, she saw Alistair stand up from next to his brother and return to the campfire. Part of Morrigan wanted to fly down, assume her true form, and sit with her love as he stared out over the ocean. The rest of her knew that it simply could not be. She had a different goal now, far diverged from his, and the two of them together was no longer a possibility. It was something that had to be accepted, not fought against, because fighting it would do nothing to change the eventual outcome. 

And yet. 

And yet, how desperately she wanted to—

A crow flew down from another tree across the small clearing and landed next to Malcolm. He peered at it oddly for a moment before making a dismissive motion. Something in the air changed, a flash, and then Flemeth stood next to him, plying at him with words. “You failed, even though you refused. Your Maker already knows that one of my children will now be reborn, Beauty in a little wolf, twinned with a wolf king. From this, change will come to His world, and vengeance will be mine.” With those last words, Flemeth turned from a rising Malcolm—already drawing his sword—toward where Morrigan roosted in the trees as a crow.

Morrigan fled, her mother’s words echoing behind her, almost burning the very air.

Wintersend dawned with nervous halla running about in their pen, eyes rolling, emitting panicked, almost screeching cries to their keeper or anyone who was within earshot. The cacophony hit Morrigan’s ears before her eyes even opened, her nose still catching the scent of burning in the air, despite knowing she was no longer in the Fade. She pulled herself quickly together and tumbled out of the aravel far more slowly than she would’ve liked. Outside, the elves of the Ra’asiel were packing and storing equipment and belongings into the aravels, dashing out campfires, and moving with a sense of urgency of people who knew they were in imminent danger. In the scant light of dawn, Morrigan squinted up at the sky and saw why—ash had started spitting from the top of the White Spire, darkening its slopes. The ground trembled as she looked upward, and she barely kept from falling fully on her face. A woeful hand went to her brow, but it was not for her or the clan or people who may have been on the mountain. “The eluvian,” she said, pushing herself to her feet despite the pain in her lower back.

“Its chamber is its tomb now,” said Lanaya, moving toward her in an almost-run. “If we get moving within the next half hour, we might be able to outrun the eruption when it happens. It’s hard to say. All I know is that the eluvian up there is lost.”

“No. It cannot be. It is...” The image of the dream came back, of Flemeth’s intrusion, her controlling words of prophecy, the chase, the burning. Burning that she now clearly saw as remnants from the ash and smoke in the air, thrown up by the mountain. _It is my only hope_.

“We will find another. We have the account. They cannot all be completely broken.” Lanaya’s hands were warm on Morrigan’s upper arms, urging her toward the aravel. “We must make sure the aravel is ready for travel.”

For the second time that day, Morrigan fled. This time, the Dalish went with her, and their aravels moved through the Arlathan Forest at a fast pace in an attempt to outrun the fire from the mountain. The tremors did not weaken as the day went on, and Morrigan could only assume that meant they were far stronger at the base of the mountain if their strength did not diminish as they put distance between themselves and the waking volcano. Night fell and they plunged onward, letting the halla guide them entirely. With night came a spectacular show from the White Spire as plumes of lava joined the ash spewing from its top. Though she knew they had other eluvians to try, Morrigan watched the destruction with an overwhelming feeling of sadness as power and knowledge were destroyed by nature’s wrath. 

The pain from the morning had not yet subsided. A wince gained Lanaya’s attention, and soon enough, the pronunciation came that she would be giving birth at an incredibly inopportune time. Morrigan decided, even as she labored, that it was the fault of the child with the new soul, because of who his father was. If anything, _this_ seemed like something _he_ would do, and find great humor in it, as well. As fire burned through the night sky, the two children came into the world, the first with wisps of reddish-gold hair and Theirin features, the second with a thatch of hair as black as a crow’s feather, and eyes the same amber as his mother’s. As Morrigan looked upon them, presented as they were by Lanaya and her First in the bumpy aravel, she decided she would defy her mother. She would not grant Flemeth her prophecy in its entirety, not if she could stop it. “I will not name them as my mother commands or predicts or whatever decision _she_ has made,” she said to Lanaya, who’d made to record their names as they had previously been discussed. “They are my children.” When Morrigan said it, a spark of possession and an emotion she would not dare to name went through her. “They are _my_ children, no matter what soul one of them carries, and _I_ will name them, not that troublesome old woman.”

“What will they be called, then?” Lanaya asked, the slight widening of her eyes the only indication of her surprise.

“The one bearing the soul of the Old God will be known as Cianán, because he is ancient as much as he is young. And the son of my love shall be known as Cináed, because he was born of fire.”

Lanaya glanced up at the tiny window at the rear of the aravel, where the White Spire continued its fiery eruption into the black sky, before turning her amused look toward Morrigan. “Literally or figuratively?”

Morrigan raised a weary eyebrow as a smile quirked at the corners of her mouth. “Do you truly wish to know the answer?”

“No.” The young keeper sighed, even as her First giggled behind her. “No, I do not. Forget I asked.”

The halla slowed, and the halla keeper let the others know that the animals had deemed it safe to stop and rest for a time. The children were brought into the open and under the fiery sky to be greeted and welcomed by the Dalish who had protected them and who would continue to do so. But the day had been long and tiring, and soon enough, all but the sentries were sleeping, leaving Morrigan alone with the two tiny beings who were somehow a part of her. As she looked upon the child of her success together with the child of her weakness, she felt a powerful touch of a feeling with which she was well familiar, and yet had never wanted to know—love. Immediately, her thoughts went to him, to Malcolm, wondering where he was, what he was doing, if he was happy. Or if he felt as she did, happy and triumphant at one turn, and then at the next, plagued by sorrow and regret.


	69. Chapter 69

**Chapter 69**

“Before the ages were named or numbered, our people were glorious and eternal and never-changing. Like the great oak tree, they were constant in their traditions, strong in their roots, and ever reaching for the sky.

They felt no need to rush when life was endless. They worshipped their gods for months at a time. Decisions came after decades of debate, and an introduction could last for years. From time to time, our ancestors would drift into centuries-long slumber, but this was not death, for we know they wandered the Fade in dreams.

In those ages, our people called all the land _Elvhenan_ , which in the old language means ‘place of our people.’ And at the center of the world stood the great city of Arlathan, a place of knowledge and debate, where the best of the ancient elves would go to trade knowledge, greet old friends, and settle disputes that had gone on for millennia.

But while our ancestors were caught up in the forever cycle of ages, drifting through life at what we today would consider an intolerable pace, the world outside the lush forests and ancient trees was changing.

The humans first arrived from Par Vollen to the north. Called shemlen, or ‘quicklings,’ by the ancients, the humans were pitiful creatures whose lives blinked by in an instant. When they first met the elves, the humans were brash and warlike, quick to anger and quicker to fight, with no patience for the unhurried pace of elven diplomacy.

But the humans brought worse things than war with them. Our ancestors proved susceptible to human diseases, and for the first time in history, elves died of natural causes. What’s more, those elves who spent time bartering and negotiating with humans found themselves aging, tainted by the humans’ brash and impatient lives. Many believed that the ancient gods had judged them unworthy of their long lives and cast them down among the quicklings. Our ancestors came to look upon the humans as parasites, which I understand is similar to the way the humans see our people in the cities. The ancient elves immediately moved to close Elvhenan off from the humans, for fear that this quickening effect would crumble the civilization.”

—from _The Fall of Arlathan_ , as told by Gisharel, keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish

**Líadan**

“See, there it is, that blasted sound again,” said Malcolm as the group of Wardens descended through the cavern’s entrance.

“What sound?” asked Sigrun.

At the same time, Oghren said, “Not my innards this time. I’d claim a rumble like that.” His addition to their search party, one made at Hildur’s request since she thought it best they had even numbers, had been both welcome and unwelcome.

“Not your innards?” asked Anders. “Couldn’t tell _that_ from the smell.”

“You’re just jealous that your innards aren’t manly enough to produce such a smell. Also, just as a friendly warning, don’t walk behind the qunari. Whew!” 

Sten sighed. 

“You know what I hate?” asked Líadan, using humor in an attempt to cover her growing apprehension about exploring the cavern and her frustration with her fellow Wardens. It had worked in the Deep Roads, for the most part. Worked well enough as a distraction that she’d never even had to give an answer to her question.

“I have been wondering,” said Sigrun, delicately stepping out from behind Sten and casting him a disgusted look before glancing over at Líadan. “Since you never did tell us before.”

Líadan let out a long breath as she stopped in the entrance to the first proper corridor that led deeper into the ruins hidden by the cavern. “The Deep Roads.” _And returning here. That, too_.

“Sodding Deep Roads.” Malcolm motioned toward the antechamber they’d all just walked through. “And you know what’s in the Deep Roads? That sound I was talking about.”

“I think that sound is just in your head,” said Anders.

“Oghren heard it. He just said he did.”

“Oghren is _drunk_. That makes him an invalid source of information.”

“Hey!” said Oghren. “The only time you should consider my information invalid is if I’m sober. That means I’m seeing the world much too clearly to be taken seriously.”

“That is the only time you should be taken seriously.” Sten crossed his bulky arms over his chest and glowered at the other Warden. “You would be a more effective warrior were you to remain sober, dwarf. Your talent is wasted.”

“If he wasn’t drunk when we go into battle,” said Malcolm, “then we’d have to kick him in the stones every time to get him ready.”

“Really?” asked Anders.

At the same time, Sigrun said, “I volunteer for that job.”

Sten sighed again.

“Don’t make that noise at me, you great sodding giant,” said Oghren. “Berserker. That’s me. Means I got to get good and mad before a battle to be useful in it. Better to be drunk than be kicked in the stones, I say.”

“I think practically every male in existence would say that, dwarf,” said Anders.

“On that subject, Sparklefingers, you and I are agreed.”

The frustration Líadan normally would’ve felt at the excessive sniping of her companions was pushed aside when she realized that their talking was drowning out the memories, for the most part. She moved forward into the hallway, treading over long-fallen debris from the stone walls. As the stepped through, she heard Tamlen’s excited voice again, just before they’d gone into this cavern for the first time. _“With luck, we’ll find something that’ll make us clan heroes!”_ Luck hadn’t been with them that day, not in the way they’d wished. She should’ve forced him to go back to the camp with her and tell the keeper about the humans they’d encountered. _Killed_ , her mind informed her. _You and Tamlen killed them for simply wandering too close to the camp_ _and being human, like the templars._ And then she’d nearly forgotten them, piled under the memories of what had happened afterward. A year ago, those three human lives wouldn’t have meant much to her, not when they’d been taken in the name of protecting her clan. Now, however, the memory took on a weight and presence that made it far harder to ignore. She glanced briefly behind her, catching sight of Malcolm as he squinted at some worn carving in the wall. Far harder to forget, and far harder to admit how much she had not cared about humans, once. It hadn’t even been a hatred like Velanna possessed, only a disinterest, as if they were mostly non-persons. She knew better now. 

Malcolm looked up from the wall and raised an eyebrow at her on seeing her staring at him. She gave a quick shake of her head, and then turned and headed further into the ruins. _That_ would bring questions later, she knew. Each step they took brought her further back into memories, closer to a person she’d been who now almost seemed like a stranger. Far more reckless and angry, eager to find something that could help her clan. No, it had been less noble than that. She’d just wanted to find something interesting down here. If it’d turned out to help the clan, it would have only been incidental. In the end, her curiosity and Tamlen’s had hurt the clan by taking away two good hunters. So, of course, she was going back. 

She moved into one of the larger chambers and stopped just past the entrance at seeing a spider nest teeming with spiderlings on the other side of the room. Normally, it wouldn’t be too large a concern to find a spider nest, except these seemed to be of the larger variety normally found in the Deep Roads. Then again, they were still fairly small, but she knew one person wouldn’t agree. “Oh, look, baby spiders!” She pointed over at the nest just to make sure Malcolm really saw. “How cute!”

A squeak came from behind her from Malcolm before he managed to say, “They’re almost all the same size of my fist! And that one, over there, is the size of _Sten’s_ fist. They are not cute. At all. Puppies are cute. Kittens are cute. Those are... horrifying.”

“I’m going with cute,” said Sigrun. “Mostly. Not the ones that are the size of my head. Those are kind of creepy.”

“They should all be crushed, but wading over there would be a thing of nightmares for me,” said Malcolm. “Not that it already isn’t. Holy _Maker_.”

Sigrun scowled up at Malcolm. “You can’t kill them; they’re just babies.”

“You’ve seen what they grow into!”

“Then you go over there and squish them to your heart’s content.” Líadan turned and smirked at Malcolm, her grin growing wider when he narrowed his eyes. “Go on. Go over and stomp all over them like the big, scary warrior you are.”

He glared at her, and then looked over at the spiderlings, which made his eyes go wide again. “I can’t. They might crawl onto me. I’m staying over here. We just... something has to make sure that _they_ stay _over there_.”

“I could put up a barrier to stay in place while we’re down here,” said Anders, who sounded suspiciously cheerful.

Malcolm gave the healer a hopeful look. “That would be all kinds of awesome.”

Anders nodded. “It would. For a price.”

“What price?”

“One to be named later.”

“Hmm.” Malcolm glanced over at the pile of spiderlings again, as if suddenly having second thoughts about Anders being his savior. Then one of the qunari-fist-sized spiderlings started inching toward the group of Wardens. Malcolm took another step behind Líadan, and then faced Anders again. “Deal.”

“You are hiding behind an elf, human,” Sten said as Anders cast a barrier spell over the nest.

“I’d call that cowering, honestly,” said Sigrun. “I didn’t think someone that tall could manage to really duck behind Líadan. Looks like I was wrong.”

“I don’t care how stupid I look, as long as those spiders stay away from me.” As soon as the barrier was up, Malcolm stepped out from behind Líadan and let go of a sigh of relief. “Make fun of me all you want. I don’t care.”

As the others approached the barrier to observe the spiders more closely, now that it was safe, Líadan said quietly to Malcolm, “Yes, you do.”

He rolled his eyes. “Not that much. I care way more about not having spiders crawling on me. Or biting me. Or killing me. Or anything to do with me, really.” He shivered. “I sodding hate them and you know it. But, it did get you into a better frame of mind, so I’ll take it.” His eyes shifted toward the spiderlings. “Could’ve done with less spiders, though.”

She rolled her eyes at his theatrics. “You’ll live.”

“ _This_ time. Seriously, one day we’ll be out exploring and we’ll be attacked by a spider three times the size of an ogre or something—maybe even the size of a high dragon—and I’ll just immediately keel over dead. Just like that. Supposedly fearless Grey Warden dying of fright from a spider. Well, a spider that big would be a freak of nature, so I guess it could be excused—”

Líadan gave him a warm smile and touched his arm with her free hand. “You can shut up now.”

He nodded. “Yes, I can. Got you to smile. My work here is done. So... I’ll meet you guys outside where there are less spiders and there are two big, strong mabari hounds to protect me if any decide to crawl out of this cavern.” Then he made as if to leave, but Líadan tightened her grip on his arm.

“Oh, no. You’re slogging through here with the rest of us, spiders or no. Besides,” she said, continuing when she caught another eye roll from him when she glanced back, “one of the spiders could be Morrigan. You never know.”

Malcolm made a frustrated noise and tugged his arm away from her grasp. “I had conveniently forgotten that you’d given me that little tidbit of information before. Thanks for reminding me, you monster.” After casting another frightened look at the spider nest, he practically dashed from the room and into the corridor beyond. Líadan followed, and the others piled in behind her. At first, Malcolm passed the statue in the hallway without pause, and then seemed to change his mind. He turned and peered at it before looking over at Líadan. “When we came through here the first time, Zevran told us that this was a statue of one of the elven gods. I just realized that it looks like that one we saw back in the Architect’s study.” His face screwed up in a moment of thought. “Falcon... no... Faldin, Fal—”

“Falon’Din.” Líadan barely managed to keep the resigned sigh out of her voice. Then she frowned as she stood next to him to look the statue over. Tamlen had pointed it out to her, the first time they’d found these ruins, but she hadn’t given much thought to its appearance. They had these same kind of statues everywhere in their campsite, all the statues of the long-trapped Creators. They were even one of the very first things set around a new camp made after a Dalish clan traveled. She’d taken them for granted so much that their presence barely registered when she saw them in other places not frequented often by humans, like these ruins. Another part of her had resented Tamlen’s comment, because it’d brought memories of long lessons with Keeper Marethari and Hahren Paivel she’d once thought were boring. Yet over a year since her sudden, almost violent separation from her clan, her resentment of having to learn the ancient lore had turned to appreciation, and she wished she’d paid more attention back then. What she did notice, though, was that Falon’Din was alone. “Where’s Dirthamen?” she asked in more of a whisper to herself than a true question of anyone else present. 

“Who?” asked Malcolm.

She gave him a quick, irritated glance, even knowing that it wasn’t _his_ fault that he didn’t already know. “Dirthamen. Keeper of Secrets. He’s one of the elven gods and Falon’Din’s twin brother. They’re rarely separated, even when it’s just their statues. When we saw Falon’Din’s statue in the Architect’s room, I didn’t really think it important that he was alone, because the statue was obviously taken from somewhere else. But here...” She reached out and traced Falon’Din’s arm, leaving a trail in the fine dust. “His brother should be here, if this is truly a place where elves lived.”

“Perhaps it was stolen,” said Sten. “ _Basra vashedan_ are known to steal such relics.”

“Now it’s my turn to ask who, qunari,” said Oghren.

For a brief moment, Sten looked as if he were going to spit on the ground. “Foreigners. Filth. Trash.”

“But why steal one and not the other? And if someone was going to steal one of them, why not Falon’Din, since he’s the more important one? That’s like someone abducting me instead of Alistair,” said Malcolm.

“I fail to understand why anyone would choose to abduct either of you on purpose,” said Sten. “Surely it would not be worth the assault on one’s ears. Far too often, you are _maraas imekari_. A child bleating without meaning.”

Malcolm scoffed. “Come on. My words have meaning _sometimes_.”

“And yet you do not deny the child part?”

“Technically I haven’t reached my majority, so... no. Give it a month and I’ll deny the other part, too.”

As Sten, Oghren, and Malcolm continued their banter, Sigrun made her way over and bent to study the base of the statue. “I think I know why Dirthamen is missing,” she said to Líadan after a little study.

The elf knelt next to her. “Why?”

Sigrun pointed at parts of the statue’s base, ones that were jagged, but their sharper edges worn soft by time. “This was one part of a larger work, on a bigger base or something, ripped off it and moved here for whatever reason. So maybe Dirthamen’s statue is still on that base or was taken somewhere else.”

“Seems as good an answer as any.” Líadan stood and looked around the immediate area, trying to see if any of the rubble had once been Dirthamen’s statue. Nothing she saw was identifiable, yet she kept searching rather than turn and face the door that led to the next room—the room that held the eluvian. As she hunched over a rock pile she’d stared at for longer than she’d admit, she heard Malcolm’s footsteps and felt his presence as he settled down next to her. “I can’t find the second statue,” she said to him when he didn’t speak.

“I figured that since you didn’t get up and start shouting that you had.” His reply had humor mixed in with his concern. He reached out and picked up one of the smaller pieces of rubble, a gray chunk of granite that might once have been a statue, a wall, or perhaps nothing of consequence at all. “For all we know, this could’ve been the statue. It’s just too worn down, like most of the other stuff here. This place is _ages_ old, I think.” He tossed the stone back onto the pile. “And unless the statue is a bit more intact than this, we aren’t going to find it, no matter how long we search. Maybe if we had a party of all Dalish keepers instead of Grey Wardens, we’d stand a chance. But, we don’t, so... you might as well stop avoiding going into the next chamber. You know, the one with the shattered pieces of some ancient Dalish artifact that this barbaric shemlen’s brother totally broke.”

For some reason, it stung at her to hear him refer to himself as a shemlen. Going by the definition of the word, it was what he _was_. A human. Elf-blooded, sure, but for all any person could be elf-blooded, they were always human, meaning that their ears were always rounded and they would never be accepted as a true elf. Malcolm and Alistair, even though they had an elven mother, were some of the least elf-looking elf-blooded humans Líadan had ever come across. Yet even with the technicality of him being human and therefore shemlen, he didn’t seem, didn’t _feel_ , like one to her. His interest in elven history, though at times distracted, was genuine. He treated elves as he would any other person. He’d even finally learned some Elvish, though her attempts at teaching him during the long, post-Blight winter had led to more than one argument out of frustration at being cooped up due to the snows and colder-than-usual temperatures. His Elvish was also not really the best, and his pronunciations were suspect most of the time. There was also the fact that he, and by extension, the Grey Wardens, were now her clan. None of the people standing in this cavern with her were shemlen in that sense. They weren’t outsiders or foreigners, no matter if they were human, dwarves, or qunari. 

“Líadan?”

She blinked, realizing that she’d let the silence go on for a bit too long. “You aren’t—” Then she sighed, breaking off from explaining to him how she felt about the shemlen issue, knowing that now wasn’t the time for these sorts of conversations. “Nevermind.” She stood up, slapping her palms on the tops of her tights as she did so. “Let’s go gather up this mirror.”

“I—okay.” He considered her for a moment longer, and then nodded almost imperceptibly before flashing a grin. “By the way, did I ever mention that this artifact of yours was the worst mirror _ever_? It didn’t reflect anything. It has the shape of a mirror and looks like it should be reflecting stuff, but it doesn’t. Yet, everyone still calls it a mirror or seeing-glass.”

“You _were_ paying attention to that explanation.” She’d had her doubts, considering there hadn’t been much in the way of clothing for more than half of it. But he’d just used the translation they’d found for eluvian, so it seemed he’d taken in more than she’d previously assumed.

“I pay attention more than I let on. It’s a secret. Don’t tell anyone or they might think I’m studious.”

“Fergus told me that you were studious as a child.”

“He lied. That’s right, the teyrn of Highever is a big, fat liar. You can tell him I said that, too, right to his face.”

“Planning on it,” Oghren said from behind them. “Can’t wait to see the dust up when he calls you on it after!”

Then they were at the door. It was slightly ajar, and Líadan swore they had closed it after themselves when they left that day. But the memories were a jumbled mess of before and after, with Tamlen and without, tainted and non-tainted. Had she even been the last one out? No, she’d been the first, storming away and leading the Wardens she’d considered shemlen back to the campsite that she’d still thought to be her home. Merrill had been the last one to leave, trailing behind the Wardens. 

Líadan took a deep breath, released it, and then pushed the door open with her shoulder. It swung freely, revealing the tall chamber beyond, complete with the carved stone dais with its two giant Tevinter statues flanking a metal frame with a shoddy mirror—she halted halfway to the dais. One Elvish curse, followed by several others, spilled from her lips as she stared. “There’s nothing left,” she said in barely a whisper. Then she repeated it more firmly. “There’s _nothing left_.”

“There’s stone,” Sigrun said, her eternal optimism showing even through the hesitancy of her words. “And that metal. Glass you were talking about is gone, though, definitely. There isn’t even that sandy glass that we found at Cadash thaig.”

“Taint’s gone, too,” said Malcolm, moving past the still Líadan and up to the dais. “Aside from the missing glass, this one’s pretty much a spot-on match for the one we found in the thaig.”

Sigrun had walked over to the dais and was peering closely at the base of one of the statues, frowning in concentration as she traced a finger over some line the others couldn’t see.

“What you got there, lady?” Oghren asked.

In answer, Sigrun beckoned him over and pointed things out while talking very quickly using jargon that Oghren seemed to understand but Líadan barely even heard. 

Instead, the elf was sifting through her memories, trying to figure out where the glass could have gone after Malcolm had broken the eluvian. Or had it been Alistair? Didn’t matter. What mattered was where the remnants had gone. There was Merrill’s voice and her protests to Líadan as they’d listened outside the door as the Wardens discussed the fate of the artifact. On hearing the glass breaking, Merrill had said, “ _We can’t let them destroy it! We have to stop them!”_ before bursting into the room to glare mightily at the two humans and one elf. Merrill, despite how powerful her magic had been, had never been one much for more than glaring mightily, no matter how strongly she might’ve felt about something, like the complete destruction of an ancient relic. Wait, there’d been scolding, too. _“You shouldn’t have destroyed it.”_ Scolding was certainly a skill the First had learned from Keeper Marethari, one which Líadan had been a victim of from both of them. What had happened after she’d left with the Wardens? Her clan had been around for the assault on Denerim, and there had been the brief contact later when some of them had been leading the Dalish around Ostagar and the Brecilian Forest. Then she’d left, unable to keep interacting with them each day and, at the same time, be so painfully _separate_ from them. From what Merren, Velanna’s former clanmate, had told her later, the Mahariel clan had also found it too painful to remain in Ferelden, and had moved north at some point while she was at Weisshaupt or journeying there. 

Had Marethari gone back to the ruins after she’d left and taken the remnants of the mirror for studying? Safekeeping? The taint had been released, for the most part, when Alistair broke the mirror, severing its connection to whatever had corrupted it. The mirror had to be clean, then, if Marethari had kept it. Líadan couldn’t imagine Marethari purposely putting the clan in danger by taking a still-tainted mirror with them. As for anyone else possibly taking it... no one but the Dalish would see any worth in an old artifact like this. Maybe a Tevinter, but they didn’t really get any in Ferelden, and certainly not in the Brecilian Forest. No, if she were to bet coin like Oghren did, hers was on Marethari gathering the broken shards and keeping them for study. It was part of the job as a keeper to keep and hold history. Right. They would have to go find the Mahariel, then. She missed them, Creators knew, every day. And yet, missing them seemed far easier than actually seeing them and speaking with them, and she was going to have to do both of those things to continue this increasingly important search for Morrigan. 

Sigrun suddenly jumped to her feet and trotted out to the hallway. The movement knocked Líadan out of her thoughts and she frowned in the direction the dwarf had disappeared in. Then as quickly as she’d gone, Sigrun popped back through the doorway and looked directly at Líadan. “I figured something out. Come here and I’ll show you.”

Curious, Líadan walked over to kneel next to the dwarf in front of the statue of Falon’Din. “What is it?”

“Here.” Sigrun’s finger jabbed at the worn, yet still jagged edges of the statue’s base. “See the pattern of this line?” Without waiting for an answer, the dwarf grabbed Líadan by the hand and led her into the chamber with the eluvian. They bent in front of the statue Sigrun had been studying while Líadan thought, and the dwarf pointed out another line. “It’s nearly imperceptible, unless you’re used to studying stone. In the Legion, we saw a _lot_ of old statues, usually Paragons or kings. Sometimes, kings—or even Paragons—fell into disfavor, and old statues were replaced with new ones. When they could, they used the same base or dais if possible, since they tended to be way more difficult to move. This is like one of the replaced Paragon statues. That statue out there? It used to be here, on this thing.” She pointed at the base of the statue opposite the one they stood before. “And that one? I bet you that missing Dirthamen statue used to be there.”

Líadan blinked in shock. If what Sigrun said was true, it—what were these things _for_? If Falon’Din and Dirthamen had stood guarding the eluvian, it meant... she wasn’t sure what it meant. Too many ideas tumbled through her mind, tugging at stories and legends and lore she’d learned as a child and as Marethari’s incredibly reluctant student. She was ready to believe that Dirthamen had stood on the opposite side of the mirror from Falon’Din. Her eyes traveled just past the mirror and the skeletal remains of what had once been the bereskarn she and Tamlen had fought. “Bears were beloved of Dirthamen,” she said.

“What bear?” asked Malcolm. 

She waved her hand in the direction of the bones. “I was just thinking of the bereskarn. Blighted bear, the one Tamlen and I fought before he touched the eluvian.” She shrugged, feeling a little foolish. “I don’t know, maybe it’s a sign of some kind. If there was a Dirthamen statue or if he or the statue was connected to this mirror in some way, I guess seeing a blighted bear next to a broken eluvian makes sense.”

“Why bears?” asked Sigrun.

“Quick version,” said Líadan, wondering if this was how a keeper or First or hahren felt when asked to repeat a myth. _I knew I should have paid more attention_. “When the world was new, Dirthamen gave each creature a secret to keep. The only creature to manage to hold on to their secrets was the bear, and so the bear became Dirthamen’s favorite because of its steadfastness.” She sighed. “There’s another version that’s much better and goes into more detail, but Hahren Paivel told it better. So did Keeper Marethari, and even Merrill, really.”

“Yes, but they aren’t here,” said Anders. 

“No, they aren’t.” Líadan focused on the eluvian again, trying to imagine what it must have looked like with the proper statues next to it. “Falon’Din and Dirthamen used to walk the shifting paths beyond the Veil with _elvhen_ who had entered into eternal sleep. Maybe this connects to the Beyond and that’s how it was used to communicate.” She frowned, and then rummaged through the pouch at her hip to bring out the book Kadri had given her. The entry wasn’t difficult to find since she’d marked it with a piece of bowstring stolen from Nathaniel. “They found some of the eluvians,” she read out loud from the book, “and all the ones they touch, they break. Their mortality touches even our work that you left behind. None will be able to reach where you have gone, Elders. We are lost.” Líadan snapped the book shut and put it away before returning to the eluvian. “But maybe it went somewhere else? Maybe the Tevinters thought it connected to the Beyond and forced it to do so. And then there was the...” She looked at Malcolm. “How was it that your Chantry says the First Blight started?”

He looked momentarily started and cleared his throat before answering. “Tevinter magisters were said to use a massive blood magic ritual to be able to enter the Fade in both body and mind. Once they were there, they were sent to enter the Golden City, which had been the Maker’s city. Their touch corrupted it and turned it into the Black City, and the Maker cast them down just as corrupted: the first darkspawn. Then they sought out the Old Gods in the earth, said to have taught them in whispers the magic that had first allowed them to enter the Golden City. Once they found their first Old God, Dumat, they tainted him, merely through their presence. Dumat rose from the earth as an archdemon, and the First Blight began.” He squinted at the eluvian. “Do you think that the corruption from when the magisters entered the Golden City and turned it into the Black City somehow got passed through this thing? Maybe the magisters working with this mirror connected it to the Fade, but it wasn’t quite working? Maybe it needed an elf to touch it or something, I don’t know. Perhaps when Tamlen touched it, he accidentally activated it after the mirror sat here dormant all these years?”

“Maybe. I just... I can’t wrap my head around the connection with Arlathan. Our people, the elves, they used to walk with Falon’Din and Dirthamen during their long sleep. But the practice of _uthenera_ stopped after the fall of Arlathan. And here is a relic from before Arlathan fell, from when _Elvhenan_ was at its height, guarded by statues of the two gods who guided them in the dreaming world. If the practice was lost with Arlathan, then maybe we lost access to the ability and it wasn’t just the loss of immortality. I just... I don’t know. I don’t know enough.” Frustration pressed at her that she just lacked the depth of knowledge they needed to figure out the mystery of the relic in front of them.

“Who would?” asked Sigrun.

“Other Dalish,” said Anders. 

Líadan nodded. “Yes. Velanna would have since she’d been trained as a First.” And, of course, she was dead, thanks to the human Chantry.

“There are other Dalish in the area,” said Malcolm. “I mean, more than a few clans did accept Alistair’s offer of permanent land here in the Brecilian for their settlement. We could ask for help from one of their keepers.” 

She looked over at him and made eye contact, seeing that he was offering to speak with other clans out of deference to her and her discomfort with interacting with her former clan again. “No.” Then she sighed. “No, we need to go back to where it started. Well, I mean, other than here. The next step, and that was with the Mahariel clan. We need to talk to Marethari.” Líadan motioned toward the empty frame of the eluvian. “I think she took the glass, anyway, so maybe she’s done more research and has the answers. When I was a child, growing up in the clan, she did always seem to have the answers. It’s what keepers were for.”

“Velanna certainly thought she had all the answers,” said Anders. “And then some.”

Malcolm frowned at him. “She was all right in the end.”

“Oh, I know. Doesn’t mean she wasn’t bossy and arrogant while she was alive, though, even when she’d gotten better in her attitudes toward shemlen like us.”

“I think it’s just a Dalish thing.” Malcolm’s quick glance in Líadan’s direction confirmed her suspicion that he’d made the remark just to get a rise out of her.

She narrowed her eyes, but didn’t fall for the bait. Not this time. Besides, he _did_ have a point, however in jest he’d made the comment. The Dalish _were_ elitist and arrogant, especially when it came to their views on city elves and humans. Líadan knew she’d been just as much caught up by the prejudice as any other, and she still fought with it even today. She had no problems seeing those close to her differently than how she’d been brought up, but when it came to strangers, her old habits tended to make a comeback, no matter how much she fought them, or knew better at this point. The person she was today wasn’t anywhere near the person who’d killed the humans who’d first found this ruin. “The Mahariel clan is in the north. Merren said that he’d seen them in the Planasene Forest. We’ll have to go there and find them.”

“You expect to just stumble upon them?” asked Sten. 

Líadan meet his challenge by crossing her arms. “If they’re in the Planasene, the clan’s hunters will see us. They’ll recognize me and make themselves known. It isn’t hard to find the Dalish when you have one with you.”

“Sometimes it’s not hard to find them at all,” said Malcolm. “There’s probably ten Dalish hunters outside this cavern right now, wondering what we’re doing in here, and looking at the mabari funny.”

“He’s probably right.” Líadan realized they probably should have notified one or more of the clans in the area, but they’d been so eager to get back to searching that they hadn’t bothered. And with so many clans around the Brecilian now, it wasn’t that far out of the question that they’d go quite noticed by any Dalish hunters in the area. “We should leave.” She cast another glance at the empty, metal skeleton of the eluvian. “Nothing for us here anymore.”

As they walked back toward the cavern’s entrance, Malcolm fell into step next to her. “You never touched the eluvian,” he said quietly, pitching his voice so only she would hear him. “You did the statue next to it, but never the actual frame that held the glass.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Really? I had no idea.”

“Fine, be that way.” Yet he smiled, acknowledging her reservations and not questioning them further. “The frame did have the same words as the eluvian from Cadash thaig, though.”

“I know.”

“We don’t have to go, you know. Or you don’t have to go see your clan, if you don’t want to—”

She held up one of her hands to cut him off. “I’ll have to eventually. I can’t avoid it forever.”

“Ha. Knowing you, you probably could, if that’s what you really wanted.” His look turned soft, the amusement changing to concern. “Not what you want, though, is it?”

“No. As much as it would hurt to see them, it would be... good... to do so, I think.” _I hope_.

“It will be awkward.”

Líadan wanted to make a joke of it somehow, but found she couldn’t. “Yes, it will be.”

“We’ve another stop to make first, though.” Malcolm fidgeted at her questioning look. “We need to go south, into the Korcari Wilds. There’s an old ritual I read about when we were at Weisshaupt that I want to try, and then...” He sighed. “Then there’s Flemeth’s hut, where she and Morrigan used to live before... before everything. We searched it after we killed Flemeth—well, when we _thought_ we’d killed Flemeth—but we need to search it again, just to make sure.” From the look on his face, it seemed that Malcolm would rather have an eye plucked out than revisit old wounds that waited in the Korcari Wilds. 

“All right.” As she nodded at him, his eyes went distant, and his hand reflexively touched the thin scar on his cheek.

When they exited the cavern, they found their horses and supplies guarded by their two capable mabari, and no Dalish hunters. 

Malcolm stared up at the tree branches nearest the ruins. “I _knew_ it.”

“Knew what?” 

“Sodding crow, that’s what. I need a rock.”

Before Malcolm could find one, the crow flew off into the sky.


	70. Chapter 70

**Chapter 70**

“There, shining among the dead like a star

His hand found a sword. Yusaris:

Forged by the dwarf smiths for an Alamarri lord long ago,

Waiting age after age to be taken to battle once more.

And this Dane freed from the earth and struck

At the eye of the dragon, still sleeping,

With a swift, terrible blow.

And Fenshal woke, wroth, only to die.”

—from _The Saga of Dane and the Werewolf_ , 4:50 Black

**Malcolm**

It didn’t matter to Malcolm how often he’d seen any of his dwarven friends on a horse. As it stood, seeing a dwarf riding a horse was still hilarious, especially when there were two of them. However, both of his dwarven friends with him on this journey could easily cut his head off, and he really needed to stop looking at them. It wouldn’t have been as noticeable if he was riding at the rear of the column, but since he was the only one who really knew the way to Flemeth’s hut, he had to lead instead of follow. Well, he was mostly sure he knew how to get to Flemeth’s hut. The ability to find it depended a lot on how blighted the land of the Wilds was. 

The Brecilian Forest had largely escaped the longer-lasting consequences of the Blight, unlike places like Lothering and Honnleath. Whereas the Brecilian had remained very much a dark, verdant forest, Lothering had come to resemble the crackled land that Malcolm and the other Wardens had seen when they passed through the Silent Plains. Attempts were being made at recovery, but efforts thus far had proven futile. If their path from the Brecilian to the Wilds remained like it was before, he wouldn’t have much trouble getting everyone there. He just had to pay attention to his surroundings, and that meant not stealing amused glances at the two dwarves riding in the middle of the column.

“Stop looking at them,” Líadan said as soon as Malcolm faced forward in his saddle. “You’re lucky they haven’t caught on yet, and when they do, I’m certainly not going to stand between their fists and your face.”

“And here I was thinking that you loved me,” he said.

“Enough that I won’t save you from a deserved and necessary beat down.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Necessary?”

“You aren’t even bothering to hide how amused it makes you when you see them riding. That alone deserves a good punch from either of them and what is apparently _necessary_ to make you stop doing it.”

“Come on. You have to admit, it’s kind of funny.”

“I admit nothing.”

He sighed, and then barely kept himself from glancing back again. To cover his impulse, he looked in the forest surrounding the Passage. “No crows.”

“Good. There’s enough of them in my dreams.”

“You’ve been dreaming about crows?”

“Just one. _Asha’belannar._ ”

He suppressed a shudder. Somehow, the Dalish name for Flemeth sounded far creepier than any other name they used for Morrigan’s mother. “How do you know it’s Flemeth?”

“The eyes. Normal crows have black eyes. _Asha’belannar’s_ crow has yellow eyes, like a wolf. Also like a wolf, I believe she’s hunting us.” Líadan’s saddle creaked as she turned to look at him. “And so we’re going to her den?”

Malcolm shifted, suddenly unable to ride comfortably in his saddle. “Yes. We need to see if she left anything that could help us find Morrigan. Or maybe her, I don’t know. It just seems like a place we need to check out while we’re in the area. Sure, it’ll take us a couple days of riding to get there, but it’s a lot closer than we will be once we try to find your clan.” He grimaced, remembering her problems with that term from earlier, and corrected himself. “Former clan. Sorry.” Then what she’d said clicked with him, the part about the crow. “Wait. A crow? I thought you’d had the dragon dreams, not the crow ones. You’re just telling me this now?” He struggled to remember what color the eyes of the crow he’d seen earlier had been, but he couldn’t seem to form a proper picture of it in his mind.

“So you _have_ had dreams about crows?”

“Only the one from the Harrowing. Near the end, when the crow was sitting on a giant rock in the middle of a field in... I’m not actually sure where that field was. Well, I mean, other than the Fade. Doesn’t matter though. The crow turned into a dragon and flew away right around when Wynne appeared. It was Flemeth, though, I’m fairly certain. There was a whisper right before I woke up, one that referred to something she’d said to us during the Blight, when we’d gone back to her house to kill her.” He’d thought the conversation long forgotten, but he remembered it then as if it had just occurred.

_“There is no other choice.You must die.”_

_“It is a dance poor Flemeth knows well. Let us see if she remembers the steps.”_

Back then, her words hadn’t seemed like much, just the odd ramblings of an old woman. Now he realized that _everything_ Flemeth said had far more meaning than anyone had ever thought. The dance—she hadn’t been referring to the battle. Maybe to the dying? Had she pretended to die before and had to remember how to resurrect herself? From all the appearances she seemed to be making, it didn’t look like she’d struggled much at all with keeping herself alive even after it appeared she’d been dead. _“The dance is far from over.”_ He shivered.

“Malcolm?”

“Sorry. I was... remembering things that Flemeth said.” He repeated what the old woman had said to them just before the fight with her in her high dragon form, and then told her what she’d said in the Fade during the Harrowing. “So you think she’s chasing after us?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say chasing. If _any_ of the crows we’ve noticed were her, then she obviously knows where we are. More like she’s keeping tabs on us. We aren’t her quarry, neither of us are that important to her. But we know who is.”

Fear settled into his chest. “Morrigan. We could be leading Flemeth right to her.”

“That’s if we _find_ her. But, yes. We could. At the same time, having us around might help her for whenever _Asha’belannar_ does find her, because I have no doubts that whatever being she is, she is more than capable of finding her own daughter. As long as Morrigan remains in Thedas, anyway. I’m not sure how far _Asha’belannar’s_ powers extend, but they obviously encompass both the mortal realm and the Beyond, judging from what we’ve seen here and in our dreams. So I suppose it doesn’t really matter whether we lead her to Morrigan or not—it won’t stop the inevitable.” She shrugged. “Maybe she only follows us because of the ring Morrigan gave you.”

Malcolm’s hand unconsciously felt at the ring slung on the new leather thong around his neck, the replacement to what Revas had eaten. “If she is, someone should tell her that it doesn’t work anymore. Every time I’ve put it on since that one night, I’ve gotten absolutely nothing from it. Perhaps I should throw it away, just to be safe, but... I suppose I’m too sentimental for that.” His lips spread in a wry smile. “Morrigan would call that weakness.”

“She would be wrong.”

“ _You_ can tell her that, not me.”

“When we find her, I most certainly will. I have things to say to her and she will listen.”

He’d known, ever since Morrigan had disappeared the night before they’d killed the archdemon, that Líadan had Things To Say to her. He suspected, though, that what things she had to say had changed significantly over the past months. Malcolm slid a glance over the elf riding next to him and caught her determined look. Okay, maybe they hadn’t changed that much. “I imagine you do.”

She smirked at him, gleaning the direction of his thoughts. “The first thing might be congratulations, though. I mean, it’s been ten months since we killed the archdemon. That means she’s had whatever child she’d intended on having. I have to say, there’s been a lack of things horrific and apocalyptic happening in the past month. Maybe that means all the doomsayers were wrong and the child won’t be a bad thing after all.” One of her slim hands let go of the reins to brush a gnat away from her head and neck. “Maybe that was even what that burst of emotion you got from the ring was. Her having the Old God child.”

His eyes narrowed as he considered it. The timing made sense, and the birth of a child would be significant enough to trigger a response from Morrigan’s side of the ring’s connection. “Why would she feel sorrow and regret about that, though? It should be a triumph for her, really, considering all she went through. Especially if the child is the means to the end of Flemeth.”

“Maybe she regrets what she had to do to get the child.”

He snorted, a manifestation of his old resentment for Morrigan’s action. “I don’t think Morrigan regrets what she did.”

His statement was met with silence from Líadan. The buzzing of the gnats and the thumps of the horses’ hooves against the packed dirt of the Passage filled the long quiet between them. He stared straight ahead, already regretting—sometimes, with his mouth, he felt he was _far_ too familiar with regret than any one person should be—his words. For some reason, he’d voiced the resentment he’d felt back when everything had first happened instead of the understanding he’d gained in the months since. Some of it had to be the lingering resentment that she’d had _Zevran’s_ child, and not his. He’d thought he’d come to terms with it and accepted it for what it was, but apparently he hadn’t, not truly. There was also the quick twinge of pain and loss on realizing that he would never have a child of his own, that Morrigan’s offer had probably been his only opportunity to do so. Normally, he didn’t think someone his age would much contemplate the possibilities of a child, but Eamon’s constant pressure had done more than enough to at least make him consider it, even slightly. In the face of that, he’d made his choice and he would stick by it and be happy with what he had. Yet, it didn’t stop him from wondering, sometimes, what it would be like, what a child with Líadan would look—he quashed the thought. There was no point in dwelling, except to mire in pain. They were Grey Wardens. The chances of them having a child was so infinitesimal that it might as well be impossible. And if he’d had the Old God child with Morrigan, it would have been _hers_ , and not entirely mortal, what with having the soul of an Old God. 

“You aren’t being fair to her,” said Líadan.

He nearly jumped at her sudden statement, but his answer was calm. “I know.” 

“You have—what? I had an entire lecture planned out on basis of you disagreeing with me.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Amusement shuffled through him, though weak in the presence of shame and guilt at saying out loud the negative things he once had felt about Morrigan. 

“She had an important task to do that was more important than any of us or anything that she might truly want or feel. Even if she accomplished her task, it doesn’t mean she wouldn’t regret the actions she had to take to see it through.”

“I know.” It seemed that Líadan wanted to have her say with her lecture, whether or not he’d already realized that he’d been an ass. There wouldn’t be a point to interrupting her or trying to stop it. They had the time, and it wasn’t like it didn’t need to be said. It did. Far too much, they both had left things unsaid. Not just them, either, but other people in their lives who had since departed without the chance to tell them how they felt. 

“Maybe when you first met her, she might have been like you’d thought—cold, unfeeling, completely and utterly pragmatic. But that wasn’t the woman I met when the lot of you picked me up from the Dalish camp. People change. They experience life and their views shift. Fundamentally, they’re still _them_ , but they come to certain realizations that changes their perspective on the world.”

“Are you talking about Morrigan or yourself?” 

“Both.” A self-conscious laugh came from Líadan. “If someone had asked me before the Blight if I ever thought I’d end up with—”

“A shemlen?”

“A _human_ ,” she said, giving him a frown, “I would have—”

“Hit them with lightning?”

She sighed. “ _Punched_ them. Creators, you’re impossible. I don’t just run around hitting everyone with lightning when I’m irritated, you know.”

He couldn’t stop the chuckle from forming, even though he knew it would probably get under her skin. “That’s true. If you did, there’d be a lot more folks left smoking in your wake.”

Líadan muttered rapidly under her breath in Elvish, and Malcolm caught enough of it to understand she was swearing at him. Not that he wasn’t familiar with it or that he didn’t deserve it. Wintering in Denerim had brought more understanding between the both of them, and their arguments caused by misunderstanding had decreased significantly. Conversely, their arguments started by deliberate digs at the other to get a rise out of them out of boredom went up in number. Those arguments usually consisted of verbal sniping, ending in eventual spars in the Warden compound or working off the excess energy in other, more entertaining, pursuits. He had also taken so studying Elvish as much as possible, certainly not wanting to miss anything else important, like his best friend being _in love_ with him and him _not knowing_ just because she’d told him in a different language. After three months, his Elvish was, for the most part, passable, but his accent, he knew, was horrible. Líadan tried to be encouraging when he spoke it, but her face usually hovered between either desperately trying not to laugh or hopelessly trying not to look disgusted as he mangled the accent. At least reading it wasn’t difficult any longer, and he’d learned all the curses he could, mostly because she’d used them all on him over the course of the winter.

He’d also gotten better at reading her moods, like being able to separate when she was murderous versus her being mildly irritated, for instance. Or, like earlier that day in the cavern, when she’d been melancholy and trying to hide it. “So, what was up with you in the ruins?” he asked. “Before the spider nest, I mean.” Then he shuddered at the memory. Maker help him, he was going to have nightmares about all those spiderlings. And Líadan and Sigrun had thought they were _cute_ and _adorable_ , of all the wrong, twisted opinions to hold.

“You aren’t a shemlen, you know,” she said. 

He frowned. She was trying to change the subject—it was something she did when confronted with an emotional issue she didn’t want to deal with quite yet. Not that he could say anything, since he tended to do the same thing. At the same time, he was fairly curious about what she’d just said, even though she was avoiding his original question. “Yes, I am. I’m human, not an elf. That makes me a shemlen. I know what the word refers to.”

“Technically, you are, I guess. Technically, each one of us is a lot of things. But shemlen has far more meaning to it than just what elves call humans, and you know it. It’s like a degree of foreignness or something, I guess. A shemlen is more of a thing, a non-person, someone who would never understand. You aren’t that. You’re human, yes, but that doesn’t automatically mean you’re shemlen. Not anymore.”

“Not anymore?”

She sighed again, her eyes taking on the faraway, troubled look he’d seen her with earlier. The look where she seemed unsettled, and it bothered him to see her like this, because it made _him_ feel unsettled. Her fingers scratched idly at where one of the gnats had landed on her neck before she spoke. “You were at first. When I first met you, I mean. You and Alistair were shemlen, and Zevran was just another flat-ear. You weren’t even the first strangers that Tamlen and I had seen that day. I never told you how we found those ruins.”

Malcolm resisted fidgeting with the free ends of the reins in his hands. “No, you never did. I’d assumed you’d just sort of stumbled into the cavern, maybe even literally, given the placement of the entrance.”

“Three human men—Tamlen and I had both thought them to be shemlen—found the ruins first. We were out hunting when they ran into us because they were running away from the cavern.”

A strange feeling settled over him as he wondered, very briefly, where those three humans were now. But he knew the answer before he even thought of asking—those men were dead. Yet the silence held, and Malcolm knew he’d have to ask the question for Líadan to answer it, even though she’d brought up the subject probably for that exact reason. “What...” he trailed off and sighed, not wanting to ask the question because he didn’t want to hear the answer. He didn’t want to _know_ that the Líadan he knew and loved had once _been_ one of those stereotypical Dalish elves humans always heard about—the ones who would kill you if they found you alone in the woods, just because you were human. “What happened?” It was a half-question, since he knowingly left off the ‘to them’ part of it. 

“We got them to tell us what’d happened to them. They claimed they found the ruins, even gave us a piece of carved stone they’d stolen from the cavern.” At ‘stolen,’ Líadan’s lips twisted slightly in disgust, a dark reminder of who she had been before the eluvian had changed everything. “Then they claimed they were running from...” Her eyes got the faraway look again, and though they rode together along the Brecilian Passage, her mind was somewhere else entirely. When she spoke, Malcolm could tell she was recounting the exact words of the humans she and her friend had encountered. “A demon. Huge, with black eyes.” Then she fell silent once more.

Malcolm went through the different types of demons that he’d seen, trying to match one of the huge variety with eyes black enough to stand out as a trait. Rage demons had burning kind of eyes, desire demons weren’t huge so much as _topless_ —and if they were human men who’d found the ruins, at least one of them would’ve mentioned the topless part—hunger demons had whitish eyes, sloth demons weren’t all that large, and that left a pride demon. They were certainly huge, and they had... what did they have? His eyes fluttered shut as he pictured the transformed Uldred, how his abomination form had dwarfed the room, and his black eyes, all seven of them, had looked haughtily down upon the mere mortals who would dare defy him. Then Malcolm’s back itched, an echo of how he’d been set on fire by the pride demon’s corpse after the battle. “Could’ve been a pride demon they’d run from.”

Líadan shrugged. “We never saw any demon, not that I can remember. I think they were making it up. Got spooked and didn’t want to admit to anything less than a demon. Most likely, it was the spiders.” In spite of how somber she’d been, a smile briefly quirked her lips at Malcolm’s expense. “Not all humans are like you and will readily admit to being afraid of spiderlings. They’ll resort to making things up to save face.”

He scowled. “It isn’t like everyone hasn’t already heard me scream like a little girl when one of those big spiders catches me by surprise.”

“You screamed like a little girl two nights ago when you found a spider the size of the tip of my pinky finger in your bedroll. And then you made _me_ deal with it.”

“You’re the one who said it was cute.”

“I should’ve kept one of the spiderlings we found today as a pet.”

“I _much_ prefer your mabari, even if she eats every piece of leather I have.”

Revas barked her agreement, earning a grin from Malcolm.

Líadan rolled her eyes. “Anyway, there wasn’t a demon, unless you, Alistair, and Zevran ran into one when you went back?”

“No. No demon. Whole bunch of nothing at all but ruins and the eluvian, really. Well, then two really fierce, angry-looking Dalish elves bursting into the room. But no demons.” Malcolm tried to remember just what he’d thought of Líadan in that instant, but all he could recall was hoping that she wouldn’t kill him right away just for being there.

“Yes, I still believe they made up the demon part. They hadn’t been lying about the ruins, though, and both Tamlen and I were surprised to discover that.”

“So... you got the information from the humans and went to the ruin? No nasty bit of murdering in between? You just sort of let the humans go?”

“No.”

“You—”

“We killed them.”

“All three of them?”

“Yes.”

“Andraste’s flaming sword, _why_? Had they threatened you?” Maybe they had, told her and Tamlen that they’d bring others back and chase the Dalish out or try to kill them. That would justify killing them, to protect their clan. That he could understand. He glanced over at her, wanting to see the look in her eyes.

But her gaze remained focused on the trail ahead of them. “Not directly, no.”

“Then why?” _I don’t want to be afraid of you and what you’re capable of._

Her voice took on the tone it had earlier, where it was clear she was recounting someone else’s words verbatim. “‘You shems are like vermin. We can’t trust you not to make mischief.’ That’s what Tamlen told them when we found them. Then he told me, ‘Hunting or banditry, we’ll need to move camp if we let them live.’ Even then, I’d... I’d wanted to let them go with just a warning to leave us alone. But if we’d let them go, we’d have to move our camp again, probably go north for the winter early. We’d be chased out of our home once again by the shemlen. I didn’t want that to happen. And then Tamlen’s eyes shifted from me to my staff, and I realized that if we didn’t kill them, they would summon templars.” She held the horse’s reins in both hands, and while the reins kept the proper tension, her knuckles had gone white in their grip. “I couldn’t let that happen. So, we killed them, hid their bodies, and then went to investigate the ruins.”

“They might not have summoned templars. They might not have mentioned the story at all, not if they were that embarrassed about running.”

“We couldn’t take that chance.”

“But—”

She turned to face him in accusation. “You’ve seen what happens when humans interact with the Dalish, when humans suffer any sort of humiliation even tangentially connected to the Dalish. Think of Seranni and Rósín and their fates. Velanna—”

“Bringing Velanna into it isn’t going to help your argument.”

Her eyebrow arched. “So this is an argument now?”

He blinked, and a frustrated sound came from his throat. “No, no, that came out wrong. It’s just... this... it’s hard to take in. That you used to be like her. Like Velanna. Most of the time, Velanna personified everything about the Dalish that absolutely scares the pants off humans. And you, you don’t compare to her. You aren’t _like_ that.”

Some of the aggression in Líadan’s posture faded, though her guard didn’t drop entirely. “No. Not anymore. Things changed, and so did I. But the elf I used to be had far more in common with Velanna than the one who met her the first time in the Wending Woods. In fact, when we spoke to her when we found her standing over the graves of some of her clanmates, I told her pretty much what you just told me.”

“That she scared the pants off you? I seem to recall your pants staying decidedly on.”

She didn’t smile, but he did see a flash of humor momentarily brighten her eyes. “No. I told her that she was the cause of our people’s enduring slavery and tears and accused her of wanting vengeance and vengeance only.”

“So _that’s_ what that argument was about. I’d wondered. You two had a lot of rather spectacular arguments, I have to say.” Part of him missed that interplay, that chance at seeing Líadan be truly Dalish instead of a Grey Warden who happened to be Dalish.

“We did. They were... not nice. I called her an exile, she called me a thinblood. It was all fairly even ground, in the end.”

“Thinblood? Why would—” He stopped, realization dawning at why one Dalish would call another a thinblood. “Oh.”

“She knew. Knew before we really did, too. Just another sign that she was a First and trained to be a keeper. Marethari and Merrill were both like that. They just... they just _knew_ things, sometimes. It was strange, to be repeating something my keeper had told _me_ to Velanna. Only when I was saying it, it was the first time I really saw myself from Marethari’s point of view, how she must have seen me after the templars killed my parents.”

 _Templars_. Yes, he was a right jackass. It completely made sense that she’d want to kill those humans, to keep them from retrieving templars and finishing what the Chantry had started that day back when Líadan’s parents had been killed keeping her away from them. “I’m sorry. I should have made the connection. You were right to kill those humans.”

She shook her head. “No. I was wrong to kill those shemlen. They were humans, people, like any other. But I didn’t have the ability to see that, to see them as anything other than either a non-entity, or a threat. If the Blight hadn’t been going on, other humans would’ve come searching for them, and probably stumbled on more of us. No matter what, my clan was going to have to move north. I just didn’t have the perspective at the time, and those men died because of it.”

“But your perspective only comes from hindsight. You did what you needed to with the knowledge that you had at the time. There’s nothing more or less you could’ve done. It isn’t like you would’ve killed them if you hadn’t had that experience with the templars before.”

“No, I probably would have.”

He sighed. “I was trying to help with the whole me not being afraid of you thing.”

“You _should_ be afraid of me.” Her statement contained none of the humor it normally would’ve had. Instead, it was stark and pointed, and that frightened him.

“You—”

“Maybe not because I’m Dalish, but because I’m a mage. Strong or not, mages are... risks. All it takes is a moment of weakness and, bam, instant abomination killing droves of people. Velanna was a stronger mage than me, far stronger, and she fell victim to a demon. If she could fall so easily, so could I.”

He rubbed at his forehead, feeling the beginning of a headache. “You know, anyone can become possessed, not just mages. Usually, demons choose mages because mages have extra powers in the mortal realm, powers that mimic their abilities in the Fade in some ways. They prefer that power, and so, they seek out mages. But, really, anyone will do. And just because Velanna was a stronger mage than you doesn’t mean she was a stronger _person_ , that she had a stronger will. Morrigan told me once that she believed you were strong-willed and, for once, she wasn’t referring to your stubbornness. She was talking about your ability to resist temptation and demons and keep control of yourself. That is an ability separate from what power you can draw from the Fade as a mage. And I have it on good authority that Morrigan was a pretty skilled mage, so I’m willing to take her word for it that you’ll be just fine.”

“You know what happened to my parents. You—”

“That had nothing to do with you and demons or anything like that. And you don’t have to be a mage for templars to have a severe and negative effect on your life. So don’t go blaming that on yourself, because I know you do.” Even now, he could see it in her eyes, how she absolutely believed that it was entirely her fault that her parents had died. “Being a mage wasn’t your choice. So things that other people choose to do based on the fact that you’re a mage aren’t your responsibility. They aren’t your fault.”

She didn’t answer for a moment, instead choosing to study the forest to her left over making any eye contact with him. Then she said, “I’m going to scout ahead and... find us a camp for the night.” With that, she whistled for Revas and sped up, disappearing over the next small rise before Malcolm could object.

He sighed, and then had Gunnar follow them. Revas was trained, but wasn’t as experienced as the older mabari. He’d rather Líadan ride ahead with both dogs if she was going to go alone. Hoofbeats sounded behind him as one of the other Wardens hurried to catch up.

“So,” said Anders, elongating the word, “what’d you do this time?”

“Nothing. She’s just riding ahead to find a camp for the night.” Maker, he didn’t want to talk about this anymore, at all, ever. No more of the mage-templar stuff. “It was just a discussion.”

“Right. If that was just a discussion, then I’m the Queen of Antiva.”

“The Queen of Antiva is actually a templar assigned to the Circle Tower, a man who goes by the name of Ser Carroll. You’ll have to find another identity.”

“Carroll!” Anders’ eyes visibly brightened at the mention of the templar’s name, something Malcolm didn’t think he’d _ever_ see when it came to Anders and templars. “How is the old boy? Still a bit addled on lyrium?”

“More than a bit. I think he nearly lost his mind during the Blight. He’s kind of young for the lyrium use to be a problem, though, isn’t he?”

Anders nodded. “Yes. I think he’s got a touch of the natural crazy. Lyrium just seems to tip the scale into touched in the head for that boy. I’ll admit, it made matters a bit fun for us mages in the Circle, though. The pranks you could pull on him! Wonderful.” Then the mage started telling stories from specific things he’d done to prank the poor, addled Carroll. Malcolm listened, but part of his attention was always on the horizon where Líadan had gone.

She returned before sunset, but was on the quiet side for the rest of the night, and the next two days of travel. Spring hadn’t yet caught on in the Korcari Wilds, and as they continued to angle south, they saw more and more pockets of snow gathered in the shadowy recesses of the deeper forest. Parts of the area started to look vaguely familiar to him, and then became quite familiar as he recognized various Tevinter ruins he’d noticed when he’d been out hunting darkspawn before the Joining. They’d dealt with wolves there, he’d snapped at Daveth over there, he’d gotten the cut on his face on this hill, they’d met Morrigan here, in this broken-down tower.

The smashed chest was still there. 

They left the horses tethered, under the watch of Sten and the two mabari. Malcolm and the rest of the Wardens stepped up into the abandoned ruin that was familiar only to him. His eyes flitted from tree to tree, searching to see if Flemeth or possibly even Morrigan waited for them. But the only birds were songbirds, and he saw no wolves. His fingers touched his scar before tracing the ancient wood of the chest. Then he was off, following a path Morrigan had once led him and three other men on long ago. 

When he caught the first glimpses of the specific broken Tevinter tower attached to Flemeth’s ramshackle hut, he called the party to halt. They found a rise where they could see outside of the shack, but as he lay on the ground and squinted, he wished he could see better and more before he dared get closer. 

“Is anyone there?” Anders asked.

“I don’t know, I can’t see,” said Líadan.

“Wait, wait,” said Malcolm. “ _Someone_ has a spyglass. They’re meant for these kinds of things.” He looked over at Sigrun. “Tell me you have it with you.”

Sigrun grinned, dug the small spyglass out of her pouch, and handed it to Malcolm. He opened it and studied the shack once more.

“Is there a dead dragon?” Sigrun asked after a moment, nearly bouncing with excitement.

“What?” asked Malcolm. “Why would there be—”

“You said you killed Flemeth there in the form of a high dragon.”

“Did you somehow miss the part where we decided she wasn’t dead after all?”

“So no dragon?”

“No dragon.”

“That’s disappointing.”

Great, now he felt like he’d kicked the dwarf’s puppy. “You wanted to see a dragon?”

“Unlike the rest of you, I haven’t seen one.”

Malcolm sighed. Why did people think that seeing a high dragon was such a _good_ experience? “I’m sure we can rustle up that one in Drake’s Fall again. We’ll be sure to take Oghren, because I’m certain she’d like a go at him over chopping off half her tail.”

Oghren nodded. “Least I could do is finish the job.”

Malcolm felt like smacking himself over the head with the spyglass until he was blessedly unconscious. “I wasn’t serious.” Sigrun plucked the spyglass out of his hands and made a survey herself.

“I was.” Oghren shifted his weight and his armor clinked. “That dragon is a sodding public menace.”

“Wait, if Flemeth can turn into a dragon, do you think Morrigan can?” asked Anders.

“No, not a dragon. She could shapeshift into a great sodding big spider, though,” Oghren said, while Malcolm groaned in dismay. 

“Wait!” said Sigrun. “I think I see something!”

“Maybe it’s a dragon!” Anders grabbed the spyglass from Sigrun and had a look. “Oh, it’s just the Dalish.”

“I thought we were looking for them?” asked Oghren.

“Not these specific ones,” said Malcolm, taking the spyglass from Anders. “I highly doubt they’re from the Mahariel clan. They’re in the Planasene. This is the Korcari Wilds.” He looked over at Líadan. “Unless Keeper Marethari had a terrible sense of direction?”

His question brought a smile to Líadan’s face that managed to touch her eyes. “No, she was good at navigation, actually. Though there were rumors that she got lost any time she went to Denerim. But that could’ve been Master Ilen just telling stories to make her look mortal.”

He handed her the spyglass. “There’s a small group of them leaving the clearing. Recognize any of them?”

Líadan peered through the glass with one eye, closing the other as she looked. After a moment, she returned the spyglass to him and shook her head. “No. None of them are familiar. Perhaps they’re just some Dalish who wanted to seek the assistance of _Asha’belannar_.”

“People do that on purpose?” asked Anders. “The Dalish are clearly far more daring than I gave them credit for.”

“She did help some people, or so I’ve heard. But then you and your clan would owe her a great debt that she could call upon at any time. They could also just be curious, young hunters. The Dalish seem to have an overabundance of the type. I was even one of them once.”

Malcolm stood up. “I think I’d like to speak with them.” He needed to know why these Dalish were there. Sure, it could have nothing to do with Morrigan, but he remembered the information he and Líadan had collected over the months, and that Morrigan was most likely hiding with the Dalish. So if Dalish elves were paying visits to Flemeth and Morrigan’s old home, then they might have run into Morrigan. Or perhaps even be there at Morrigan’s behest. Ignoring the objections of his companions behind him, Malcolm slid down the hill and headed for the clearing. 

The Dalish hunters immediately turned at the sound of sticks breaking under Malcolm’s boots. Three brought up nocked arrows while a fourth drew sword and dagger. Malcolm’s hard-won ability to speak and read Elvish immediately fled his mind as he raised his hands to ward off possible arrows and struggled to remember something, _anything_ to keep them from letting them go. “ _Ma emma harel_ ,” he said, hoping it meant they shouldn’t fear him or that he came in peace or something in that totally non-violent and ‘please don’t riddle me with arrows’ kind of way. 

The nocked arrows were drawn on hearing his words, and the young elf with the sword and dagger stepped forward in an unmistakably menacing manner. “Not another step, shem. Why do you threaten us?”

“I wasn’t! I mean, I said that you shouldn’t—”

“Creators, really? You couldn’t even remember something as simple as _bora’din_? Don’t shoot? You told them that they should fear you,” came Líadan’s voice from behind him as she dropped down the slope. She glared at Malcolm, and then turned to the hunter brandishing the sword. “ _Aneth ara_. You may lower your weapons. There are no enemies here.”

The elf holding the sword blinked in surprise, her reply to Líadan almost reflexive. “ _Aneth ara_. I did not expect to see one of our own. I am Ariane of the Calliel. I was sent by my keeper to determine if...” She paused, as if considering what she could tell them. “If _Asha’belannar_ is truly among the dead.”

Malcolm snorted. “Flemeth? She’s alive, and very much so.”

Líadan sighed. “What he says is true. _Asha’belannar_ is alive and you should inform your keeper as soon as possible. I am Líadan of the Grey Wardens, and this is—”

“You are the Dalish elf who helped slay the archdemon?” Ariane asked, interrupting Líadan’s introductions. However, she did at least sheathe her weapons.

Following their leader’s example, the archers lowered their bows and returned their arrows to their quivers.

“Yes, I was there,” said Líadan, looking taken aback, her cheeks reddening slightly at the sudden attention called to her peculiar position in Dalish society. She cleared her throat and indicated Malcolm before motioning the other Wardens down off the hill. “This is Malcolm, and with us are Anders, Sigrun, and Oghren, all of the Grey Wardens.”

On hearing Malcolm’s name, Ariane gave Malcolm an odd look, one that seemed strangely calculating in its intensity. He gave her an uneasy smile and hoped he hadn’t somehow offended her. Then she asked him directly, “Why are you here?”

“Just... looking. Old times’ sake.” Malcolm tried not to shift from foot to foot. “Reminiscing about the Blight and all.”

Ariane’s eyes narrowed and she stepped closer, her calculating look quickly turning deadly. “You hunt for _Asha’belannar’s_ daughter, do you not?”

“Looking for Morrigan, yes, but hunt isn’t the term—” His words came to a fast halt when he found a sharp blade pressed against his neck. He hadn’t even _seen_ Ariane draw the blade, and he was fairly certain that he’d squeaked at the feeling of cold metal on his throat.

“You will not find her.” Ariane’s voice had become sharp and dangerous. “We are tasked to protect her and her children from _Asha’belannar_ and any other danger there might be to them. Do not follow us. Abandon your search, shem.” 

Then as quickly as it’d appeared, the knife was gone, and so was Ariane and the three other Dalish hunters with her. Malcolm’s hand went to his sword to draw and give chase, but Líadan put a hand to his forearm. “Don’t bother. We’d never find them.”

His eyes swept over the forest where the Dalish elves had disappeared. “They’ve met Morrigan. They _know_ Morrigan. They can tell us—”

“They won’t. You heard what she said.” Líadan sighed. “It’s best if we continued the search using our own methods. You were the one who said we can’t go directly after her.”

He rubbed absently at his neck where the blade had been and sighed. “I know.”

“Did she say children?” asked Anders. “Plural? I recall you all talking about _one_. I thought there was only one Old God soul to go around?”

Malcolm shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I don’t know how twinning works.”

“Keeper Marethari will know more,” said Líadan, looking no less troubled than Malcolm felt. “We can ask her about it when we find her. It isn’t like we can ask Morrigan at the moment.”

“One would likely have a normal soul,” said Anders. At the surprised looks from the others, he rolled his eyes. “Healer, remember? I did study these things. Twins means you can have identical or non-identical, though no one has figured out exactly how you get either one, just that it can happen. The theory is that there’s either two lives in the womb to start with, or that one somehow splits and becomes two. If the Old God child split, I’m not sure how that would work soul-wise. But if there were two to start with, one would plainly be the Old God, and the other would be, well, normal, I suppose.”

“As normal as a child could be with that woman as a mother,” said Oghren.

Malcolm frowned at the dwarf. “I think she’ll be a good mother. She learned what _not_ to do from Flemeth.”

Oghren grunted. “You’re only defending her because it could’ve been your kid.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.” Malcolm started for the clearing in front of the shack, leaving the others behind to discuss whatever they pleased without him having to listen. There was no sign of a dragon, dead or alive. He could feel the lingering presence of magic, but nothing more than he’d felt other times that he’d been here. Considering who’d lived in this place, it would reek of magic for decades to come. He spared a quick glance at the marsh before walking into the shack. 

The memories were stronger here, and he could almost hear Morrigan’s words to him when he’d woken up after she and Flemeth had rescued him and Alistair from Ostagar. Yet however strong the memories were, the inside of the building wasn’t as fresh. Everything was covered with a fine layer of dust except for where the elves had walked. He saw their tracks and fingermarks everywhere—the bedding, the chests, the shelves, even over the fireplace. They’d been searching for something, obviously. Maybe they’d even been telling the truth, that they had been looking for evidence of Flemeth’s death. If they were charged with protecting Morrigan and her children—he had to admit, the plural _was_ throwing him off—then a large part of that task would be determining the threat Flemeth presented. It did kind of sting that they assumed that _he_ was a threat, though. Then again, he was a Grey Warden, and if they thought the Wardens wanted to kill the Old God, tainted or untainted, then it was an understandable assumption to make.

He stood in the middle of the room, frustration squeezing his throat, and stared at the empty fireplace.

There was nothing for him here in this abandoned shack except more memories of someone he’d not been for a long time. There was nothing that pointed him toward Morrigan, and not even anything that pointed toward Flemeth. It was an abandoned hut in a desolate Wilds in the southern reaches of Ferelden, and nothing more. He shouldn’t have come here.

All that remained was sorrow and regret.


	71. Chapter 71

**Chapter 71**

“I watched from across the battlefield as Garahel struck the final blow against the Archdemon and a great wave of energy surged out from the beast.

It was enough to level what buildings were not already destroyed by the endless battle we had fought, enough to knock horses and ogres aside as if they were little more than parchment. Even at my distance, the force struck me like the blast of some great storm. The darkspawn around us felt it too, as savage desperation turned to sheer terror.

A great pillar of energy rushed up into the dark clouds, the blackness that had gathered with the horde and blocked out all glimmer of hope. When we stood again, we saw the first rays of sunshine peeking through those clouds and we let out such a cheer of joy and relief that it shook the very earth. I joined the others as we searched for Garahel, but as the even approached all I found was his enchanted helm. It was not until much later that I heard his body had been retrieved, flung to the far side of the battlefield by the Archdemon’s death throes. My friend, this elf who helped us unite the lands and cleanse Thedas of the darkspawn scourge, will always be remembered. I swear it.”

—excerpt from a letter written by the Grey Warden Prosper, 5:24 Exalted

**Líadan**

She vaguely heard Anders and Oghren chatting away in the background as she stared into the trees where the other Dalish had disappeared. Had Líadan been alone, she could have easily tracked the other elves. But with the crew she had, the others would hear them long before they were within sight and would be able to change the trail they left, or even improve on it enough to make it disappear. Plus, if what Ariane had said was true—that she was tasked with Morrigan’s safety and the safety of her children—catching up with them would do no good at all. They would never give up any information, and they would never be convinced that Grey Wardens meant Morrigan and the Old God child anything other than harm. 

Even still, part of her wanted to give chase, to track them down just to prove that she _could_. Yet she remained, tasked with her own duties, and seeing to them. Like she had told Malcolm, it would be best if they stuck to their plan on taking the roundabout route to finding Morrigan, no matter how tantalizingly close they’d just been to people who had most likely recently interacted with her. Recent enough that they’d known that Morrigan had given birth to two children, and not one. How strange. Líadan could barely imagine traveling with one infant, much less fathom attempting to travel with two. She suspected that Morrigan was still with whatever clan that had taken her in, especially given that Ariane had been acting on a keeper’s orders and not Morrigan’s whim. But Ariane had said she was with the Calliel clan, and she knew from Malcolm’s experience with Morrigan’s ring that Morrigan was with the Ra’asiel. 

The Calliel had been Velanna’s clan, and their keeper had died, and Velanna, once Ilshae’s apprentice, was exiled, and so they’d been without a keeper. From what Líadan could remember from the last _Arlathvhen_ , there hadn’t been another assigned to the Calliel. There hadn’t really been a need. Velanna had become Ilshae’s First, but her younger sister Seranni had trained right beside her, as Líadan had partially done with Merrill once she’d been found with the ancient gift. Seranni had discovered her gift earlier, of course, and most likely had paid more attention to her keeper-type training than Líadan had. It didn’t matter, though, because Seranni was dead and lost to the Calliel as much as Velanna and Ilshae. Merren had said that the Calliel were migrating north once more, so it was possible they’d joined up with another clan. That sort of thing had happened a few times in Dalish history, and usually when a clan got too small, or lost a keeper and had no replacement. Those who had been Calliel would keep associating themselves as such.

It seemed, from what Ariane had said, that the Calliel had merged with the Ra’asiel out of need. What they were looking for down here in the Korcari Wilds, Líadan had no idea. Perhaps it was just double-checking for _Asha’belannar_ , or trying to track the old witch down, starting with one of the places she’d been known to frequent. If she ever found them again, she’d ask. Well, she’d ask after she had words with Ariane for holding a naked blade to Malcolm’s throat. _That_ had been entirely unnecessary. Though, in retrospect, the unmanly squeak he’d made had been amusing, once the danger had passed.

Speaking of danger, the sun was going to set soon. They needed to get out of here and make a camp, preferably away from this place. Just because _Asha’belannar_ wasn’t here now didn’t mean she wouldn’t decide to visit. She braced herself, and then headed for the shack that Malcolm had entered a while ago.

Líadan found him standing in the middle room, staring at the cold, dead ashes banked in a lonely fireplace. “Malcolm, we need to go. The sun will be setting soon.”

“Right.” His reply was absent and mechanical, and he made no move to leave.

She wanted to touch him in order to return him to the present, but she felt a reluctance to do so. In this place, in this domain, she felt the memory of Morrigan almost as a presence. And in that presence, she felt she had no claim or right to bring Malcolm away from it. It reminded her that, before her, he had been Morrigan’s, and the fear returned that she wouldn’t be good enough for him to choose to remain with her. Morrigan was still a force of nature, and her power was strong standing here in what had once been her home. Would—no. Líadan forced the questions away as much as she could. This search was about helping their friend, and she had to keep her own self-doubt out of it, no matter how much it clamored for her attention. She reached out, but stopped short when he suddenly spoke.

“A lot of decisions were made here.” His eyes were still trained on the fireplace, his hands held in fists at his sides. “I wonder what would have happened if Alistair and I had chosen differently. If, instead of gathering the armies and the nobility, we had gone to Orlais to join the rest of the Grey Wardens outside the border.”

 _I wouldn’t have met you, and I would be dead from the taint_. She didn’t voice that first thought. “Alistair probably wouldn’t be the King of Ferelden if you’d done that.”

“Ferelden probably wouldn’t even exist if we had. The Wardens would have waited for the civil war to end or for the Blight to overtake the entire country, and then bubble over into Orlais before taking action. They would not have risked their forces on a civil war.”

“Ferelden should remain ever grateful, then.”

“Hmm. Quite so. We also... we could have forbidden Morrigan from accompanying us, I think. Or allowed her to guide us from here to Lothering since we didn’t know the way, and then asked her to leave. She would have, back then. Not sure how she’d have worked out the whole problem of having the Old God child if we had, but it was an option. Things would certainly have turned out differently.”

“You would be dead, most likely.” _And I would be as lost as Velanna was._

Malcolm laughed, but it wasn’t unkind. “You kept quiet with the thought I _know_ you had about you dying if we’d gone to Orlais instead of staying here in Ferelden, yet you made sure to tell me that I probably would’ve died if Morrigan hadn’t stuck around for as long as she did.” He turned around, his step not as heavy as she’d assumed it would be. “Funny how that works out.”

She crossed her arms, somehow perturbed that he knew her that well. “One seemed more important than the other. I voiced that concern, and—”

“More important to _you_ , maybe, but not to me. Whatever you might think, I wouldn’t go back and change anything, not even if I could entertain that option. Things have worked out the way they have for a reason, and I need to have confidence in that reason, whatever it might be.” He sighed and waved a hand at the inside of the shack. “Though it does really feel like Morrigan is almost here, doesn’t it?”

“Powerful magic was worked here.” Creators damn him, she didn’t want to think or talk about Morrigan, not right now.

A small smile graced his lips. “That’s saying pretty much the same thing. The night before Alistair and Anora’s wedding, I dreamed of her. She had—”

Líadan closed her eyes. It was too much. “As much as Morrigan is my friend, I don’t think I want to hear this.” Did he _really_ think that she wanted to hear about some sort of sex dream about his ex-lover? Especially while standing in a place that reminded him and her and everyone else so much of the missing woman?

“It isn’t what you think.” His voice was warm and slightly amused, which served to annoy rather than placate her.

She opened her eyes to find him watching her intently, seeming far less amused than his tone had communicated. “Then what is it?” She ran a hand through her hair, willing herself not to tremble. Seeing other Dalish had come too soon, she hadn’t yet had time to sort herself out, to figure out what she would say to them to explain whatever it was she had with Malcolm. While it didn’t bother her to confront humans who objected, for some reason, it was different when it came to her own people. With humans, she remained proud and hid nothing. With elves, with the Dalish specifically, she felt suddenly like an unsure child, still needing their approval, even with things she knew they’d not approve of. The appearance of the Dalish coupled with the strong memories of Morrigan had thrown her down a path of self-doubt she’d not really tread before. It’d been one she’d tentatively walked, when first dealing with her feelings where Malcolm was concerned, but the fears had mostly been assuaged before the two of them had taken their first steps towards one another. This was the first time she’d felt truly unsure about where the stood, about what Malcolm would choose to do once they found Morrigan.

And she _hated_ it. She loathed feeling this unsure and small and weak. First at discovering that while she had plenty of courage to say to humans that this was the man she’d chosen, she hadn’t the same courage to tell her own questioning people that this was the man she’d chosen to love, and who’d chosen to love her in return, shemlen or no. Maybe part of the unsureness was because there seemed to be a tiny part of her—a loud, tiny part of her at the moment—that wasn’t sure if Malcolm had truly, finally chosen. That the stronger the memories of Morrigan got, the more he would pull away, and once they finally stumbled across Morrigan, he would leave.

“It was a dream, but not _that_ kind of dream. It wasn’t just Morrigan that was in it. I mean, Flemeth was, too.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “That doesn’t preclude—”

He made a strangled noise and raised his hands to make her stop. “No more! You’ll scar me for life if you continue on with that line of thought.” He shuddered. “I’d honestly forgotten about the dream, strange as it was. It was about the Blight, specifically the night before the Battle of Denerim. It was just as awful and painful as the memory is, but at the end, it changed. Flemeth appeared. She flew down from a branch to stand beside me and she told me... something. I couldn’t remember what, and I didn’t think it was that important. Just another dream becoming a nightmare, and just as quickly forgotten. I think the combination of coming in here and what Ariane said before she left made me remember. She said the same thing to me that she had during the Harrowing dream, the mentions of twins and beauty and wolves and vengeance. I didn’t pay much attention, though, because I was reaching for my sword.”

Líadan remembered. “And you tried to draw your sword as you slept, punching me in the head.” _That_ had been a particularly unpleasant way to wake up.

He blushed. “I said I was sorry. Besides, your dog took exception to it and bit my nose, so you both got even.”

She laughed at the memory. Malcolm had gone to Anders the next morning to get the not-so-small pup’s bite marks healed. Anders had stared at him for a moment before asking what’d happened. Then, before Malcolm could answer, Anders had waved him off, saying, “ _For the love of the Maker, nevermind, I don’t want to know.”_  

“I guess that explains why you forgot.” Her mild amusement disappeared as she shivered. “And it seems _Asha’belannar’s_ prophecy came at least partly true. Ariane said that Morrigan had children. While it could be more than two, given what information we’ve had from _Asha’belannar_ , I’m okay with assuming that it was twins. This means we should pick apart whatever else she’s said with this little prophecy of hers, so we can find any other elements of truth that might rest within it.”

“It’s creepy.”

“You sound like your brother. And not in a good way, either.” She made the quick correction because Malcolm had yet to let her live down the comment she’d made about him, Alistair, and their penchant for righteous tirades when the feeling took them.

He grinned, catching on to why she’d amended her statement. Then the grin faded, and his eyes became serious. “Look, I’m sorry if—”

The door to the hut banged open, and Oghren tromped inside. “Sun’s getting ready to set, so unless you two really want to camp out near where a scary witch-type used to make her home, we’d better get going.” He tilted his head to the side and pointed a finger between the pair. “Were you two...”

“That?” asked Líadan, turning to face the dwarf. “In a place where a ‘scary witch-type’ used to live? No. No, I don’t think anything is worth tempting whatever fate that would be visited upon me should I engage in something untoward.”

Oghren looked vaguely disappointed. “Too bad. Would’ve been hot.” That said, the dwarf turned and strode out the door.

Líadan stared at the door for a moment before glancing back at Malcolm. “I’m surprised he didn’t mention coin.”

“I’m sure he had a bet or five riding on it. Too bad for him.” He sighed and looked over at the narrow bed near the door. “I mean, there’s a bed and _everything_.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s covered with an inch of dust. And that ‘everything’ includes memories and who knows what else from scary witches. I’d rather just keep my insecurities for the time being than lose my head or end up in pieces hanging from various trees.” There was a time and a place for those sorts of activities, she decided, and now wasn’t either of them. She started for the door.

Malcolm caught up with a couple of fast, long strides, grabbing her hand and stopping her before she could exit. Then he pressed her against the wall next to the partially-open door and stepped in close. 

She recognized the look in his eyes and brought her hands up between them, pressing them against his chest. “Not the time or the place. Not that we haven’t been adventurous before, but this borders on insane, even for us. Why don’t—” He cut her off with a kiss, and she completely forgot why she was objecting, because she was too busy trying to pull him closer.

Then he pulled away and smiled at her again. “I don’t want you to feel insecure about, well, us. Words kind of failed me. I thought that might help communicate how I feel.” He looked around them and grimaced. “Though, I think you’re right about this not being the time or place. I’m getting a really creepy vibe from in here. If we did anything, there’d probably be bits cursed or bits falling off or _both_ and that would be... awkward. And painful.” His eyes shifted to look out the partway-opened door. “Damn, Oghren wasn’t kidding about it almost being sunset. We still need to get to that other place to try that trick I read about.”

She’d been almost willing to say sod the consequences, but him bringing up Oghren instantly snuffed any flames Malcolm might’ve stoked with the move against the wall. “Mentioning Oghren is certainly a sure fire way to kill the mood.” 

“Yeah, I can’t figure out how to see that beard of his in a sexy way, either. Maybe the way he holds his battleaxe? That might be—Maker, what am I _doing?_ ” Malcolm jumped and rubbed at his forehead. “Nothing is worth that image. _Nothing_. Let’s go find that lake before anything worse happens, like Oghren and Flemeth together.” He paled. “Too late. Already had the thought. Kill me now.” Then he practically lurched out of the shack, Líadan following while smothering a laugh under her hand.

Sigrun shot her a questioning look once they exited. “What’d you do to him?”

She held up her hands to protest her innocence. “Me? I did nothing. What you see, he did to himself. He’s that talented.”

“Let’s just get back to Sten and the dogs and horses,” Malcolm said, his voice still sounding strained. 

Once the group was mounted again, they managed to find the lake Malcolm indicated rather quickly. They circumnavigated the small lake—pond, really—as Malcolm consulted a map he’d scribbled on. “There,” he said, pointing at an overhang near yet another crumbled Tevinter-style tower. He frowned. “I think. That looks like a half-sunken Tevinter dome. I’ll have to climb down.” He dismounted, leaving his shield behind on the horse, but tucking a journal and the map into a pouch at his belt. He took a step toward the overhang, thought better of it, turned and unclasped his cloak, leaving that with his pack as well. As the other Wardens watched, he carefully climbed down the side of the overhang until he found footing on the small strip of land between the rock face and the lake. Once down, he took the journal from the pouch, and commenced looking between it and the rock. He’d give the rock a good, hard stare for a few long moments before glancing back at the worn journal, repeating the actions for a while. He crouched and studied the lower parts of the rock face, but ended with a sigh and stood up.

Líadan caught the dark expression on his face. “What’s wrong?”

“I forgot I needed ashes. Ashes from a dead person, apparently preferably someone close. And here we had a rash of deaths of loved—and not-so-loved—ones, and I completely forgot, once again wasting deaths.”

“If someone must die, I have no qualms against killing the mage,” said Sten, looking directly at Anders.

“Hey!” said Anders. “No need to kill anyone.”

Líadan folded her arms over her chest and glared at Sten. “You know, I’m a mage as well.”

He inclined his head in a gesture of apology. “I had forgotten, _kadan_.” 

She fought a smile—he’d used that name with her again, the name he called Shale. He’d started calling her that halfway through the long winter, working with her and Revas as they trained the mabari. Apparently, it was a term of friendship, or something of the like, according to Hildur. Whatever worked. It also worked to tweak Malcolm’s nose that the qunari liked her more than he liked him. Though Líadan suspected that if Malcolm talked half as much as he tended to, Sten would like him just fine. 

“Apparently,” Malcolm said from the ground under the overhang, “you should be hitting Sten with lightning.”

For a brief moment, Líadan looked at Sten in a new light, considering other meanings of what Malcolm had just said. She’d seen the giant when he’d been without a tunic. Qunari were _very_ easy on the eyes. 

Her silence went on a bit too long for Malcolm to take. “Holy Maker, you’re not _considering_ it, are you?”

She burst out laughing, and Sten shook his head in resignation. “I will never understand,” the qunari said, his voice almost rumbling. “I will begin to set up camp. This problem will not be resolved before sunset, even if I kill the male mage.”

“Just for that, I’m not healing you the next time you get hurt, Sten,” said Anders. “Not until you apologize for hurting my feelings.”

“Then I will endeavor to continue avoiding injury.” Sten continued clearing an area for a firepit. 

Líadan glanced over at Sigrun, who had a hand clamped over her mouth and looked to be _dying_. Oghren grunted and headed over to help Sten. 

“A little help, please,” came Malcolm’s voice as his hands clawed at the top of the overhand. “Armor weighs more than I thought.” The two dogs ran over, answering his call for help. Gunnar looked from Malcolm’s hands and over at the Wardens, asking for help. Meanwhile, Revas leaned in and gnawed on his fist. “That isn’t funny,” Malcolm told the dog. 

Revas responded by biting down harder, making Malcolm yelp and pull his arm back. That action sent his body backward and off the overhang, missing the strip of land below, and landing with a splash in the lake. Sigrun lost her fight with the giggles and gave in to them. Líadan ran over to the edge of the overhang to make sure Malcolm was safe before she joined in the laughter with their friend.

“I’m fine, in case anyone cares,” said Malcolm, already on his feet in the knee-deep water and trudging toward the shore. “No? No one? Well, the next time any of you is stuck in a crushing prison spell, don’t look to me to cleanse the area for you.” The mud made loud squelching noises as he walked on the shore, taking the long way around to the campsite on the top end of the overhang. “Though I might need to bargain with one of you mage-types to help dry out this gambeson. I think it weighs about fifty pounds now, as opposed to five.”

“Sorry,” Anders said, busy with one of his tent’s ropes. “Can’t hear you over the threat of being stuck in a crushing prison forever.”

“You would be dead inside of one hour, mage,” said Sten. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“You mean aside from death?”

“Death is nothing to fear.”

“They’re going to get philosophical again, I know it,” said Sigrun. “I don’t have enough ale for extended arguments about Andraste, the Maker, and the Qun. Oghren, I hope you’ve got extra.”

He waggled his eyebrows. “Oh, I’ve always got extra for you, lady.”

The two dogs had reached Malcolm at that point, and were running tight circles around him as he plodded up the hill. He did a good job of looking miserable, but managed to fire some good glares at Revas. “This is _your_ fault, you know. My hand is not a chew toy, especially when it’s being used to hold me up.”

The mabari in question barked at him, and to Líadan, she sounded practically gleeful. The elf held in her own laugh, biting her bottom lip and keeping her head down. If she made eye contact with Malcolm, she’d lose it, and he’d use the opportunity to act even more like a martyr. However, she couldn’t keep herself from pointing out that his logic of blame was flawed. “You do realize that you’re wearing gauntlets that can withstand far more puncturing pressure than a playful mabari, right? There’s no way you could’ve felt the dog’s bite, so it was entirely your overreaction that landed you in the lake.” Revas barked again and ran to stand next to Líadan, butting her head against the elf’s leg until she reached down and scratched behind the dog’s ears. 

“I think she’s trying to get me killed,” said Malcolm. “She’s had it in for me ever since that day you got her from the kennels.”

“Oh, give it up already.” Anders stood up from his work on his tent. “You aren’t Andraste, no matter how hard you’re trying to be a martyr.”

Sigrun handed a flask back to Oghren, sighed, and made her way over to the fire Sten had going. On her way past Anders, she took him by the arm and hauled him with her. “Your turn to help with dinner.”

Sten stood, and for a moment looked lost, until he spotted the horses and how they’d yet to be tended. “I will deal with the horses.” 

Líadan left Malcolm standing next to the overhang, water dripping from his sodden clothing, and bounded over to the horses to grab the necessary overnight gear. It would make it easier for her to set things up, and easier on Sten as he fed, watered, and picketed the horses. They usually left the job of tending the horses to the qunari—he seemed to enjoy working the animals, almost as much as he did working with the mabari. Knowing what she did of Sten’s story and how he would never be able to return to his people and homeland, Líadan saw no reason to deny the man what comforts they could afford him. Sten grunted a thank you after she helped remove saddles from both her horse and Malcolm’s, and then led the horses away. Líadan shrugged on both packs, slung Malcolm’s cloak over one shoulder, hefted Malcolm’s shield—Creators, she had no idea it was that heavy—and then contemplated attempting to bring both saddles with her on this trip to the camp. It was a relatively short distance, since they couldn’t be that far away from the horses. However, she’d run out of hands.

“As tempted as I am to watch you try to carry the saddles in addition to all that stuff, I think I can help,” Malcolm said from behind her, placing an absurdly cold hand on the back of her exposed neck. He chuckled when she jumped, and any pity she might’ve felt for his predicament completely disappeared.

After whacking his unfortunately still-armored shin with his shield, she slowly stumbled toward the camp, grumbling under her breath. The grumbles continued as she dropped the packs and shield, and then set to digging out the tent. She was setting it up when he returned from taking care of the saddles, and didn’t bother to turn when she heard his approach—after all, she could still hear him quietly laughing to himself. He wisely refrained from speaking, and Líadan heard him rummaging around in his pack, followed by the thuds of various pieces of armor being dropped from his body. No, she would not turn around. He was being noisy on purpose to try and get her to turn and look at him. She resolutely finished her work on the tent, ignoring the movement just out of her line of sight. 

“I’ll take that,” Malcolm said, removing his rolled-up cloak from where she’d slung it across her shoulders. Then the soaked gambeson was dropped on her head and shoulders in the cloak’s place. Líadan reacted with a shortened yell of outrage, followed by a sweep with her arm, trying to take him down. But Malcolm had already dashed away and, as she struggled out from under the gambeson, scurried into the tent to change. 

Líadan, grumbling even more, brought the gambeson and set it out near the fire to dry, taking note that it didn’t weigh anything near the fifty pounds Malcolm had claimed it weighed. If it _had_ , it would’ve broken her neck. She glared in the direction of the tent, where Malcolm had yet to appear, but even though she was frustrated with him, she couldn’t make herself be that angry. She’d spent the past two days in a strange quiet after their conversation about her history with templars, and then there’d been their visit to Morrigan’s former home, threatening to make him as melancholy as her. Him pushing her buttons like he was—the equivalent of a _da’len_ pulling the hair of a crush—was a sign that he was doing his best to stay away from the easier melancholy. Her patience, however, only went so far, and the gambeson had _smelled_. She wondered if he’d done things like this to Morrigan. At first glance, one wouldn’t think that Morrigan would be the sort of person to engage in little pranks, but Líadan clearly remembered the incident with the tea. For a week straight, Morrigan had frozen Malcolm’s morning tea right as he went to drink it, all while denying the entire thing. 

Yes, she would follow Morrigan’s example. The only way to keep things lighthearted and bearable at the same time would be to engage in the same sort of actions. It was either that or kill him, and usually, she liked having him around. 

Malcolm eventually rolled out of the tent in his spare set of clothing. After checking over his armor and making sure it was drying out, he joined the others at the campfire for the evening meal. Watches were set, plans made for the next day to continue moving north from their current position. Map and journal out, Malcolm looked over at Líadan. “If the Mahariel aren’t in the Planasene, where else would they be up there?”

She shrugged. “Anywhere in the Free Marches, I suppose. I mean, there are other forests than just the Planasene. They could be in the Vimmark Mountains, the Sedim Forest if they found it, plus there’s a whole bunch of unnamed forests all around the Free Marches. Then, if they really wanted to get away, they could even have gone up to the Arlathan Forest and the White Spire. The Mahariel never traveled that far, though. Usually it was summers in the Brecilian Forest and winters in the Planasene. Why do you ask?”

He moved closer and showed her the map. “Once we get to West Hill via the Imperial Highway, I’m trying to decide if we take a ship to Cumberland or Kirkwall from there. If we go to Cumberland, we can just start the search from the westernmost section of the Planasene and go from there. If we go to Kirkwall, then we’d have to double-back if we don’t find them in the Planasene in order to search the other forests. Then again, Cumberland isn’t my favorite place.”

“Speaking as a mage,” said Anders, “ _Kirkwall_ isn’t _my_ favorite place.”

Malcolm looked across the fire at him. “What do you mean? I know there’s a large Fereldan refugee population, but I hadn’t heard much about it being a bad place for mages.”

“That’s because you’ve been busy with the Blight, darkspawn, and Grey Wardens.” Anders ran his long fingers over the stave across his knees. “I’ve heard things from other mages who fled after what happened with the Ferelden Circle. It’s worse in Kirkwall, and many of them wish they’d never left.”

Malcolm frowned. “But after what Uldred—”

“Exactly.” Anders nodded, more to himself than the others. “Exactly. That’s how bad it is in Kirkwall. Do you know what the building that holds the Kirkwall Circle is called?”

“Obviously not.”

“The Gallows.”

Líadan raised an eyebrow. “Really? Even for your Chantry, that sounds bad.” She moved her gaze from Anders to the man sitting next to her. “I think my vote has to be to put in for Cumberland, then. You’ll just have to deal with being in that city once more.” She traced out a route on the map. “And we can cut east through the Planasene and move north through the Vimmark Gap if we haven’t found the Mahariel clan by then.”

“All right, fine. Only because I don’t really want to see either of you near a place called ‘The Gallows,’” said Malcolm. Then he folded up the map and tucked it in the pages of his journal. “That settled, now I just need to figure out how to make use of that supposedly enchanted or possessed rocky outcrop so that our trip down here wasn’t entirely wasted.”

“Do you have to use the ashes of a dead person for sure?” asked Anders.

Malcolm checked the words again. “Ashes of the deceased.”

“The deceased could be anything dead,” said Sten. “Animals or even dead plants would suffice. Use ashes from the fire, if you must.”

“I suppose that could work.” Malcolm squinted at the text like it would give him a clear answer if he just stared at it long enough. Then he turned and looked at the overhang.

Líadan sighed. “Not at night. If something goes wrong, I’d rather fight whatever monster appears in the daylight.”

“You say that like we fight demons and monsters regularly.”

“We _do_ fight monsters regularly.”

“Honestly,” said Anders, “I wouldn’t be surprised if a dragon appeared after you sprinkle the ashes. On second thought, maybe we shouldn’t mess with it. I’ve had enough of dragons for a very long time.”

Oghren scoffed. “And you’ve fought all of, what, one whole high dragon, sparklefingers?”

Anders nodded, taking no offense where offense had been clearly intended. “As I said, enough for me.” He looked at Malcolm. “Besides, using plant ashes while trying to summon whatever spirit you’re trying to summon might just piss it off instead of making it want to grant you a wish. Then you’d have to fight and kill it, and there’ll be no wish granted after all.”

“He makes a good point,” said Sigrun.

“I suppose we can leave it for a last-ditch effort.” Malcolm closed his journal, though his reluctance showed with how slowly he closed the book. “Just in case everything else goes to the Void, which is probably the most likely outcome.” He fell silent for a time, but Sigrun picked up the slack for the chatter, striking up a conversation with Anders that drove Sten to exasperation and a long patrol around the campsite. Líadan gave up on it shortly after, fetching out notes and a book to scour for more information on the eluvian. If they were really going to speak with Marethari and Merrill, she was going to need to have her ideas and theories in order. Otherwise, the keeper and her First would pick things apart, she’d get flustered, and they’d end up in an argument instead of a discussion. 

Remaining at the fire, she worked without interruption as the others drifted off to sleep. She’d taken first watch, and the others were either getting what rest they could before their turn, or capitalizing on the chance for a full night’s rest. It wasn’t until well into the watch that the quiet Malcolm, lounging against a rock near her and cleaning mud out of his armor, started to get to her. She sighed and nudged him with her foot. “What are you thinking about? You being this quiet isn’t natural.”

The hand swiping the rag over the greave stopped. “Zevran.”

She blinked. That had most definitely not been an answer she’d considered. “I’m almost afraid to ask how you arrived at thinking of him.”

“Long story short, I was thinking about what that woman Ariane said, about Morrigan having _children_ instead of a _child_. And then how Anders said it meant that the extra one would have a new, normal soul. It got me to thinking, realizing, that these children aren’t just Morrigan’s, they’re also his.”

The first thing Líadan noticed about what Malcolm said was that he’d referred to Ariane as a woman, and not _elf_ , like most people would. The second thing was that she wasn’t sure if Morrigan would agree with him about the children being Zevran’s as much as they were hers. At least, not the Old God child. “Maybe the other child, the one without the Old God’s soul,” she said out loud. “I don’t think Morrigan is going to share the other.”

“Maybe. It’s just... I hadn’t really thought of the child, _children_ , that way. He was my friend, and a connection to my foster family, as well. In everything that’s happened, it’s easy to overlook the sacrifice that he made. If he hadn’t done what he did to clip the archdemon’s wings in the battle, Riordan never would’ve been able to make that final blow. And if things had worked out differently in the battle, who knows which one of us would’ve had to make that blow. It might not have been Riordan. Could’ve been me, you, Alistair, Oghren. Maybe none of us would’ve made it at all and what Zevran and Morrigan did would’ve assured that anyone striking that final blow would’ve still ended the Blight. So, I was thinking, that where once I believed there was nothing left of my friend Zevran in this world, I was wrong. He has a child, maybe even two, still here. Evidence of just how far he was willing to go, how much he was willing to sacrifice, in the name of saving those whom he called friends.”

The words brought back memories of her dear friend, of his ready grin and carefully hidden, caring heart. “Most people don’t know what he really sacrificed.” Tears stung at the corners of her eyes, and she had to put down her book.

Malcolm set aside the piece of armor he was cleaning and put his hand on hers. “No, but we do. And we can make sure that he isn’t forgotten.”

She blinked away tears, and then smiled. “You know, if Zevran had it his way, celebrating his life and death would probably require whores and fine wine, and none of this teary reminiscing.”

“We’re on watch. And I’m fresh out of whores and fine wine.” Malcolm picked up the rag again. “However, I’ve got plenty of mud. Hmm. No. Not the same.”

Líadan laughed. “Now he’d just tell you that you’re lacking imagination.”


	72. Chapter 72

**Chapter 72**

“It is heresy today to speak of Shartan, an elven slave that rose up against Tevinter masters to help Andraste’s barbarian invasion.

It seems most people would prefer that Andraste crossed the Waking Sea with little more than a basket of flowers and songs of peace and harmony. The truth is that she came with a horde of warriors at her back, and that without a rebellion occurring behind the enemy lines, it’s very possible that the holy invasion could have been foiled.

Shartan was a slave who became a fabled warrior and later a devotee of Andraste herself, and we know this because the Canticle of Shartan spoke of their meeting on the Valarian Fields. Andraste gave him a mystical blade that he called Glandivalis (translation unknown) and he even fought at Maferath’s side. But now the Canticle is one of the Dissonant Verses, and has been ever since the Exalted March of the Dales.

It seems we don’t wish to speak of elven heroes or the role they played in Andraste’s war any more than we wish to speak of barbarians or the bloody death toll that accompanied the war. With each passing age, heroes like Shartan become more of a fable, but some of us will always know the truth.”

—from _The Dissonant Verses_ by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar, 9:25 Dragon

**Malcolm**

Malcolm was strongly considering giving up on West Hill’s harbor in favor of Highever’s larger port. The excuses he got from each ship captain were grating, and as the morning continued, his frustration rose as they piled up: “The hold is full,” “You’ve too many in your party,” “Sorry, can’t take your horses,” “We don’t deal with elves,” “We don’t deal with dwarves,” “No way I’m taking a mage on my ship, he could be an apostate for all I know,” and Malcolm’s personal not-so-much favorite, “Blessed Andraste, do you think we’d transport a _qunari_?” Another captain had finally agreed, at least until Sten insulted his ship. Malcolm understood that the qunari had a vastly superior navy. He did. However, Sten _really_ could have waited until the captain was out of earshot before referring to the man’s ship with several choice terms. Terms that had, for once, been in the common tongue, and not the qunari language.

As the bearded captain stomped away—and their last hopes of sailing out of West Hill with him—Malcolm threw his hands in the air in defeat. “I give up. We’ll have to go to Highever to find a ship if we want out of this country using that method any time soon.” And to think, this morning he’d been in a fine mood brought about by the familiar scent of the sea and the breeze that carried it. 

“That will make us lose another day,” said Sten, oddly growing more and more eager to find Morrigan as time went on.

Malcolm turned to fire a glare at him. “Well, maybe you should’ve thought of that before you opened your big, insultingly descriptive mouth.”

Sten crossed his arms over his expansive chest. “I was merely assessing our transportation’s capabilities.”

“Yes, well, thanks to your fine assessment, that ship is no longer our transportation.” He’d even defended Sten’s presence earlier to the captain who’d refused to transport Sten on the basis of his race, the same as he’d done for Líadan, Oghren, and Sigrun when objections had been made about them. The attitudes they’d encountered served to remind him in how different a company he traveled compared to most people. He’d forgotten, if that was even possible, that his companions were not only a human, but an elf, a qunari, and a couple dwarves. Sure, he was _aware_ of it, mostly the differences in size, having to look up at one and down at the others when they were talking, but it didn’t really register that they were different in ways that the captains’ refusals seemed to insist. Speaking with Ariane in the Wilds, he hadn’t really thought _elf_ so much as _really pissed woman with a dagger at my throat_. And right now with Sten, it wasn’t really _stereotypically demonic qunari_ so much as _fellow Warden with a stick of superiority often jammed up his ass_. He sighed. “So there isn’t much we can do since you offended our last hope here in West Hill. Thanks for that. Really. We’re having such a fantastic morning.”

“It is better that we did not take that vessel. It was inferior. _Vashedan_. Trash.”

“It wouldn’t have fallen apart underneath us as we sailed. It was a perfectly capable and sea-worthy ship. One that will be sailing to Cumberland tomorrow morning _without us_. Now we’ll be lucky to get to Highever tonight, find a captain in the port tomorrow, and maybe get underway by the next day.” Delaying the search wasn’t Malcolm’s favorite option. However, the thought did cross his mind to make a detour to Vigil’s Keep and drop off Sten into the more tolerating hands of Hildur. Yes, that was certainly a pleasant thought at the moment.

Judging by the look on Sten’s face, Malcolm supposed the qunari would like to toss him off the end of the pier they were standing on, possibly even with an anchor tied to his ankle. Then again, Sten always seemed to have that eternally perturbed look on his face. 

“You called me _vashedan_ last night at dinner,” said Anders, as if just figuring something out. “You think I’m trash?” 

Ah, so he _had_ just figured something out.

Sten looked from Malcolm to Anders. “You are a mage.” He did not bother to explain further, as if that terse statement entirely explained his position on mages. Which, when Malcolm thought about it, did. The only person in their company who Sten did more than tolerate was Líadan, and it seemed the qunari made himself forget that she was a mage in order to respect her. It was easier to forget that she was a mage, though, especially when compared to mages like Anders. Her stave could easily be taken for a type of glaive and she didn’t dress the part at all, not like Anders, who practically reveled in his oft-gaudy robes.

Malcolm groaned when the two dropped into another argument and started down the pier toward the West Hill town proper. Time to retrieve their horses from the stable sooner than they’d thought, and be on their way to Highever. Sten and Anders could argue in the saddle. It wasn’t like they wouldn’t, anyway.

He bumped into Líadan, who hadn’t moved from her spot, arms folded over her cuirass and staring up at the mast of one of the docked ships. “I don’t understand why a ship captain wouldn’t want elves on their ship, especially as a member of the crew. I mean, elves are generally lighter, more agile, and faster than humans. We’d do far better climbing that rigging than most of you humans ever would.” She glanced over at him with a half-smirk on her lips. “Especially you big, clumsy warrior-types. You’d end up trying to beat the rope into submission.”

“Lines,” he said in an automatic correction. “If a rope’s on a ship and being used in the rigging, or pretty much anything else related to a ship’s function, they’re referred to as lines.” He didn’t bother mentioning that they were also sometimes called shrouds, since he would already be in enough trouble for the bit about lines.

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Lines. Fine. You have the vocabulary, but I’m more graceful than you.”

“Well, I would certainly take you on my crew,” a sultry, amused voice said from behind them.

The pair turned to see a dark-skinned woman giving Líadan an appreciative and thorough once-over. Malcolm was mildly startled when her look, finished with Líadan, shifted over to him.

“As grateful as I am for the offer, I’ve already got a job,” said Líadan. 

The woman’s gaze moved back to the elf. “Aw, pity.” She looked a bit disappointed, and then brightened. “Where was it you said you needed to go? I’ve caught glimpses of you asking for transport all morning, and I can see—well, hear, really—that you’ve been unsuccessful.”

“Cumberland,” said Malcolm. It hadn’t helped that all the outgoing ships seemed to be captained by mostly Orlesians, with a couple of Nevarrans. 

“I’m headed that way myself. Quick stop in Cumberland before a little jaunt down to Val Royeaux on some... business. I believe I would have room on my ship for your party.”

“And our horses?” Malcolm asked, feeling a tiny flicker of hope that they hadn’t run into a three-day delay after all.

The woman nodded. “And your horses.” Her eyes moved down to the two mabari standing with the Wardens. “Your dogs, too.”

A light of concern passed through Líadan’s eyes, and she looked at Malcolm, a worried finger pressed on her lip. “Revas has never been on a ship.”

“She’ll be fine,” he said. “She’s Fereldan. You should be more worried about yourself since you’re the one who gets seasick.”

Líadan chucked a thumb behind them. “We have Anders with us. I’ll be just as fine.”

Sigrun clapped her hands together. “I’ve never been on a ship, either! I’m so excited. Oh! I’ll even be able to use my spyglass in the proper place!”

Malcolm held in a sigh and moved his gaze back to the stranger. “Might I ask who you are?”

The woman grinned, and the gold piercing below her lip glinted in the midday light. “Captain Isabela of the _Siren’s Call_ , at your service.” She finished her introduction with a little bow, complete with a flourish. 

“I’m—”

Captain Isabela cut off Malcolm’s attempt at making introductions. “I know who you are. I’d say I’m surprised that these other captains didn’t know you’re Prince Malcolm, but, you know, Orlesians.” She gave a small shrug of her shoulders—one of which was armored, and the other bare. “And that one Nevarran. They tend to be the most out of the loops. The Orlesians, they tend to simply not care.” Her gaze shifted to Líadan. “You, I know, you’re the Dalish Warden, Líadan.” Then her eyes went to Oghren. “And you’d be the dwarf, Oghren.” Then to Gunnar. “And who can forget the prince’s faithful mabari Gunnar?”

That got her a happy bark in reply, and Malcolm saw that this Captain Isabela had already made one fast friend. 

Isabela smiled, and then returned to Malcolm. “The rest, however, I do not know.”

He made quick introductions of the others. Isabela’s gaze caught for a moment on Sten, her eyes widening just slightly, but enough to make Malcolm wonder what the deal with that was. With Anders, her eyebrow raised briefly before a knowing smirk spread across her lips. Malcolm wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the story behind that particular look. After he finished introducing the other Wardens, he asked, “Why so eager to help us? Not that I’m complaining, since our other choice was to go to Highever, but considering the reception we’ve gotten so far, one has to wonder.”

The smirk came back. Either that, or it never left. “Let’s just say that I knew Zevran.”

Malcolm was fairly certain Isabela meant _all_ connotations of ‘knew.’ 

Líadan scowled. “Creators, another Antivan? You don’t sound like Zevran.”

“Oh no,” said Anders. “She’s Rivaini. A whole different sort from those Antivans.”

Isabela’s honey-colored eyes lit in full recognition as she took another look at Anders. “That’s where you’re from! You’re that runaway mage who can do the electricity thing! I remember you from the Pearl.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “I knew we should have listened to Zev when he said we should pay that place a visit.”

Líadan punched him in the arm, making him wince, and then chuckle in spite of it. He’d said that mostly to get a reaction from her, and it’d worked.

“And _you’re_ that pirate who liked to hang out at the Pearl,” said Anders. 

As he rubbed his sore arm, Malcolm narrowed his eyes at Isabela. “Pirate?”

She sighed. “I also do _non-_ pirate things, such as transporting passengers when I’ve got room on my ship. Zevran even deigned to travel with me, artist that he was. Granted, he killed my husband in order to be able to do so, but he did also travel with me. Does it really matter? Safe passage at whatever price you were offering those... inferior captains.”

“All right, deal. We do need to get to Cumberland sooner rather than later. When—”

“We’ll be sailing at the tide tomorrow morning, so report to my ship bright and early.” Isabela took another step forward, edging into Líadan’s person space, and then Malcolm’s. “If you want to find me... earlier, I’ll be at the Plough and Harrow.” With that, she winked and sauntered off the pier, toward the town. 

“She winked at me,” said Malcolm, staring— _not_ leering, or drooling, or anything else of that nature—after the departing Rivaini.

Líadan ran a hand through her hair. “No, I think that wink was directed at me.”

“Knowing Isabela,” said Anders, “that wink was probably directed at both of you, or possibly all of us. Well, maybe except for Oghren.”

Oghren grunted. “Too bad if it wasn’t. She’s the first surfacer woman I’ve seen that’s got a proper rump on her.” He looked up at Malcolm. “Where we staying again? Say it’s the Plough and Harrow.” He started chuckling. “If that’s not a brothel, then—”

“It’s not a brothel, but it might as well be. So, no, we aren’t staying there. We’ll get rooms at the White Hart.” He _hoped_ the White Hart had rooms, because in a town as small as West Hill, it was either there or the Plough and Harrow. Personally, he preferred staying outside in tents another night over a night at the Plough and Harrow. There wouldn’t be enough hot baths in all of Thedas to rid him of the things that could be picked up at that place. Yet he found himself laughing, because Zevran would’ve picked the Plough and Harrow just on the basis of its name. The dirtier the name, the more likely Zevran would want to stay somewhere. 

Turned out the White Hart had no rooms available, while the Plough and Harrow had just two. Oghren was in his element, with Anders not far behind, both of them joining Isabela at the bar with Sigrun following after only a moment’s hesitation. Sten glowered at the revelers in the main room before heading upstairs to what Malcolm assumed would be continued glowering up in the room he would be sharing with the other male Wardens. Sigrun and Líadan would be taking the other free room, turning down an offer from Isabela to share her room so that the men wouldn’t have to fit four in theirs. Malcolm was really starting to see how Zevran and the Rivaini had been friends—it seemed they shared a lot of the same ideals. 

At least, he decided as he tore into dinner at a table near the fireplace, the food was decent. Either that or he was so hungry that it didn’t matter. By the time he was finished eating, Oghren had stumbled back over—somehow with the others in tow, including Isabela—and declared that they had to play some Diamondback. The fallout from his last foray into betting and Diamondback still fresh on his mind, Malcolm declined. 

The initial refusal didn’t deter Oghren. “Come on, I told the woman you were good at card games. Only way I could get her to play.”

“I’m horrible at Diamondback. If we were talking Wicked Grace, I’d be saying something different. But we’re—”

“That can be arranged,” said Isabela. “I much prefer the cunning and wit needed to play Wicked Grace than the less strategy and more luck oriented Diamondback.” She reached into a pouch at her belt and produced a deck of cards, along with a flashing smile. “I even have my own deck.”

Líadan smirked over at him, as if the say, ‘Go ahead, get out of this one _now_.’

“Of course you do.” He rubbed at his eyes. “Fine. I’ll play a couple of rounds.”

The game ended up going on for far more of the evening than he’d planned. He would’ve chosen to retire to bed sooner, but he and the other male Wardens had drawn straws for the two beds in the room they’d rented. He and Oghren had come up short, and after the one visit to their room, Malcolm wasn’t sure if it wouldn’t be better to sleep outside the building or even outside the entire town. That, and Isabela kind of scared him. Not in a knife in his back kind of way, but the ‘you’re going to get me in trouble with Líadan’ kind of way, which was potentially far more painful than a knife in the back. Midway through the game, Líadan had made some sort of eye contact with Isabela, and the pirate’s come ons to both him _and_ Líadan had completely stopped. He suspected it was some sort of secret woman-to-woman communication ability, but he wasn’t that sure of it. However, he _was_ sure that the game had been far more fun after that, with Isabela trawling her net toward, of all people, Sigrun. 

And it seemed to be _working_. Amazing.

The small amount of coin he’d used to buy into the Wicked Grace game finally ran out, and he used the opportunity to beg off to bed. He wasn’t sure which part of sleeping would feel more strange: sleeping on the floor of questionable cleanliness of the Plough and Harrow, or sleeping without Líadan by his side for the first time in months. He’d gotten very used to her presence, and didn’t much look forward to being alone. Especially when ‘alone’ really meant ‘sharing a room with three other men.’ Gunnar and Revas stayed with Líadan and Sigrun downstairs, to eventually be allowed to sleep in their room, since the mens’ room was already on the crowded side. Líadan gave him a sad, wistful smile before he went up the stairs, but she’d be a while yet, since she was very far ahead in amount of coin won. 

In the room, Malcolm found Sten already asleep in one bed, and Anders, having lost in the early rounds of cards, passed out in the other. Oghren was still downstairs. Malcolm almost spread out his bedroll, and then thought better of it. He leaned against one of the walls and kept his armor entirely on. Sleep, even though he was tired, wouldn’t happen quickly. He wasn’t sure if there were rats—wait, no, scratch that. He _was_ fairly certain there were rats, and possibly other things that could crawl all over his body, like, say, _spiders_ , but he just didn’t know where they were hiding. So he kept leaning against the wall closer to the door and wondered if he shouldn’t have had more ale after all. It would’ve kept him from caring about the possibilities of rats and spiders. He was idly rolling his glowstone from hand to hand when the door burst open and Oghren stumbled inside.

In a testament to their ability in filtering out real threatening sounds while asleep, neither Sten nor Anders woke up. Sten didn’t make a noise, while Anders merely rolled over to face the wall. 

“You’re still up?” Oghren asked, a surprised gaze on Malcolm.

“Can’t sleep.” He almost said ‘ _rats will eat me,’_ but kept that to himself. Oghren would tease him mercilessly about it for weeks, otherwise.

The dwarf kicked his bedroll open in the middle of the room and immediately fell onto it. “Not surprised. Missing your lady, I bet. Heh. I was that way, first few weeks after Branka went missing with the rest of our House in the Deep Roads. Least for you it’s just this one night.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. Oghren rarely brought up his dead ex-wife. “How did you get over it?”

“Drank until I passed out.”

“I seem to have missed that chance tonight.”

“No, you haven’t.” Oghren rustled in his pack, and then thrust a flask in Malcolm’s direction. “This’ll take care of it.”

“No thanks, I think I’ll stick with the insomnia. I can sleep on the ship tomorrow if need be.” He had no intentions of having dwarven ale ever again, not unless it was under life and death circumstances. 

“Eh. Your loss.” Oghren took a pull from the flask, but kept it close at hand after. Then he flopped down on the bedroll from his sitting position and fell silent long enough for Malcolm to assume he’d fallen asleep.

He hadn’t.

“I noticed you turning down that pirate wench downstairs,” said Oghren. “Several times. She couldn’t have been more obvious, so I know you must have noticed what she was offering.”

“I imagine almost everyone in the common room noticed what she was offering.” The woman had been shameless and made no secret about it. It had reminded him quite strongly of Zevran. They both knew what they liked, and they both went after it without apology. It was a refreshing outlook, if somewhat disconcerting when that full effect was pressed onto you. Sometimes, quite literally. “It... wasn’t something I wanted, though. Not with her, anyway.” On giving that answer, Malcolm wondered if perhaps he’d consumed more ale than previously thought. Isabela was undoubtedly attractive, but even looking at her in admiration, he’d almost immediately thought about how he was happy with what he had, and had no inclination to risk losing it. Looking at Isabela made him nod in appreciation. Looking at Líadan made his face light up—Wynne had pointed _that_ out to him more than once. Even Anora had noticed. You didn’t have to be the smartest man to recognize with whom your happy future rested.

“That’s what I figured. Way I see it, a man who can turn down an offer as open and free as what a woman like Isabela was offering, is a man who’s found the right woman for himself. Like how I was when I found Branka. Well, back before the whole thing where she became more cracked than a glass floor.”

“You mean Branka wasn’t always...” Malcolm trailed off, fumbling around for a diplomatic way to refer to Branka’s mindset when they’d found her in the Deep Roads. He failed. “You mean Branka was once normal?”

Oghren scoffed. “No, no I wouldn’t say that. She was always a few pillars short of a hall. Brilliant, though. But it wasn’t until after she became a Paragon that she really fell apart. She was sure something before that, though. People used to think it was a darkspawn attack when we went at it.”

“I’m... sorry?” The apology had started out as sincere, and Malcolm had started staying it before Oghren mentioned the part about darkspawn. And the ‘going at it.’ Who _talked_ about it that way, other than Oghren, with even a hint of seriousness?

“What’s done is done. No need to fret over it when you’ve got a drink, that’s what I say.”

“And practice.”

Oghren held up his flask in salute. “That is sure as Stone true.” He took a slug, and then looked at Malcolm. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, I’ve a question to ask that pertains to it.”

He desperately hoped it had nothing to do with sounding like darkspawn while—or anything to do with that, really. Not really something he wanted to discuss with Oghren. Or anyone, for that matter. “What is it?”

“When you going to make an honest woman out of her? After watching you turn down that pirate, I know you aren’t looking for anyone else. You’ve got who you want, don’t you? What’s stopping you from following in your brother’s footsteps?”

He didn’t much want to talk about this, either. Time to employ tried-and-true avoidance tactics. “Cailan is dead. I rather like being alive at the moment, thank you very much.”

“Don’t even try that playing dumb thing on Oghren, boy. You and the pike-twirler use that angle on everyone all the time, but you forget, I’ve seen you both at work. You might put on a good act for most people, but old Oghren knows there’s some brains behind those dashing good looks.”

Of course the dwarf had to choose right now to be at his most observant and, apparently, coherent. “Oghren, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Well, let’s not go crazy or anything. Keep your pants where I can see ‘em. I mean, I like you and your brother, but not in that way. Now, listen to me. You’ve had a lot happen to you. You’ve lost a lot and I know what that’s like. I remember what you were like when the elf was trapped up in Drake’s Fall, and I know how you both have been since you got your heads sorted out. Bearable, for once, in case you’re wondering. So I’m telling you to make an honest woman out of her. It’ll make you both happier, and there won’t be any of that nonsense I saw at the pike-twirler’s wedding.”

“What nonsense?” It wasn’t that Malcolm couldn’t think of anything that had gone in unwanted directions when dealing with the nobility after his brother’s wedding, it’s that he couldn’t figure out what specific thing Oghren was referring to.

“You know. The _noble_ stuff. All those sodding lords trying their sodding best to marry you off to their little princess when you have no interest in them whatsoever. And then the biddies and other spineless arses who say things about the elf when she’s almost out of earshot. Maybe she thinks she can hide it from other people, but she can’t hide that look on her face from Oghren. And I don’t like seeing her like that. She has too much spirit to look anything near downtrodden. It’s not right.”

Malcolm shifted his legs, reluctant to meet the dwarf’s gaze. He hated that look on Líadan’s face, too, but there wasn’t much he could do about it, except for staying away from court. “Oh. That nonsense.” He sighed. “It wouldn’t matter anyway. It would still happen.”

“Why would—”

“Human. Elf. The nobility wouldn’t be able to handle it. Besides, she’s also Dalish. I don’t even know what their customs are. I doubt her people would look any more favorably on us being official than mine would.”

“Sod that. Your people are the sodding Wardens. And, as a Warden, I couldn’t give a flying bronto’s arse what the Dalish or your human nobility thinks. You and the elf just work. No need for it to be thought about any more than that. Might as well keep that partnership going and make it official while you’re at it. Just saying.” He paused, tugging at the braids of his beard. “Besides, wouldn’t it piss off that noble you’re always arguing with?”

Malcolm blinked. He hadn’t realized exactly how much attention Oghren had been paying to the goings-on. “Eamon?”

“Yeah, him. That’d get his panties in a right sodding twist, that would. You and the elf go back to the palace in Denerim with him present, announce that you’ve entered in the bonds of—what do you call it?—matrimony, and he’d have a sodding stroke.”

“He would.” Admittedly, that particular scenario was appealing, given the stroke be entirely non-injurious or fatal. Just the look of shock on Eamon’s face would be enough, actually. No need for a potentially dangerous stroke.

“Well then. What’re you waiting for?”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Even if I were planning on following your advice—and I’m not saying anything either way—I’d be waiting until morning. She’s sharing a room with Sigrun, remember? That’d be more than awkward. I’d like to not make Sigrun feel awkward.”

“Oh, I bet that fiery little dwarven vixen isn’t feeling awkward right now. She’s the one who ended up following that pirate to bed.”

“She did not.”

“No word of a lie. I swear on the tits of my Ancestors—and that’s the most serious oath I know—that Sigrun is plying that pirate’s seas as we speak.”

Malcolm felt the blush as the unbidden image came to mind, and he winced. Sigrun was like a _sister_ , and while Isabela wasn’t, Sigrun _was_ , and he was afraid he’d have to claw out his own eyes after this. “I’m not barging in their room on your word alone, Oghren. I trust you with my life, but there are things that I _don’t_ trust you with. Rather, things I trust you to do even when you insist you have my best interests at heart. For instance, exactly how much coin is your pool up to now?”

“What pool? There’s no pool.” 

The door cracked open and Líadan stuck her head in, her eyes going right to the dwarf. “Oghren, you _always_ have a pool. It’s when you don’t have a pool that I’ll be suspect.” As Oghren waved her off, she turned to Malcolm. “Come to my room. Sigrun’s gone off with Isabela, so I’ve got the room to myself. Also, I think I saw a rat run through the hallway. Not sure you want to share the floor with it.”

Oghren rolled over. “Told you,” he called over his shoulder and, within seconds, was snoring.

Líadan frowned at Malcolm. “Told you what?”

He pushed himself off the ground and fetched his pack from a nearby corner. He definitely didn’t need to be asked twice to leave the questionably dirty floor of this room for another room’s warm bed. “He told me where Sigrun had gone. I didn’t believe him.”

“Understandable.” She opened the door and stepped aside so he could walk through. “So what was that about a pool?”

He shrugged, not wanting to talk about what Oghren had brought up until he’d had a chance to really think about it. “Like you said, Oghren always has pools. He was just trying to tip the odds in his favor.”

She rolled her eyes. “Because that worked out so well for him before.”

“What can I say? He’s an optimistic drunk.” Líadan’s answering chuckle warmed him inside, and he laughed with her as they entered her room. Gunnar deigned to stay curled up in his spot in front of the small fireplace, his only greeting a lifting of his head before settling back to sleep. Meanwhile, Revas jumped to her feet and started running circles around the two Wardens, happily shoving her head into Líadan’s legs between light growls directed at Malcolm.

He barely caught himself from rolling his eyes again. “You aren’t scary,” he told the mabari. “At all. Kittens are more frightening than you. You’re just mad that you don’t get the bed all to yourself and Líadan and you’ll have to sleep on the floor. Suck it up.” Then he tapped Revas on the muzzle and deftly avoided the accompanying snap. However, the snap was all in good play, and hadn’t been serious. If it _was_ , he was fairly certain he’d be missing a finger or three.

“So what’d Oghren want from you, anyway?” Líadan asked, dropping onto the bed, her armor already off and stacked in a corner. “He looked like he was in an advice-dispensing mood. You know, the mood he gets after about ten ales. He tried talking to me about something, but kept getting distracted by Isabela’s assets.” She put a thoughtful finger to chin. “I think they were actually larger and more distracting than Princess Vapid’s breasts. She could’ve taken lessons from Isabela, I think.”

Malcolm decided it would be mostly safe to take off his armor, between Revas having settled in front of the fire, and him now not having to sleep on the floor. Also, he couldn’t very well sleep in the same bed as Líadan and keep it on. She’d complain, and rightly so. It was definitely _not_ pleasant to sleep next to someone encased in cold metal. “I hope not. She’d have plied me with more ale, had she taken lessons from Isabela.” Gauntlets off and deposited on his pack, he bent and worked on his boots. 

“She _did_ ply you with ale. I had to switch it out with weaker stuff.”

He paused and looked up at her. “Wait, are we talking about Isabela or Vapid? I mean, Ilsa. That was her real name.”

“Ilsa. I gathered she’d somehow arranged to have you given ale that was far stronger than the rest of ours.”

“That explains the hangover I had the next day. I wish you’d noticed sooner.”

“I did tell you to drink water before you went to sleep. Advice that you ignored, by the way.”

“I didn’t ignore it. I _passed out_. There’s a difference.” He shucked off one of his boots and went for the other. “It never would’ve worked. I remember her irritating me, though it’s still kind of fuzzy how she managed to do it.” The other boot came off and he shifted his attention to the straps on his cuirass. He heard Líadan get up from the bed, and then saw her hand extend toward his cheek.

“She asked how you got your scar. You told her how, but when she went to touch it, you lost a bit of your temper.”

His fingers stilled as he fumbled with the buckles of his armor and he heard echoes of Morrigan’s voice. _“Do not be afraid. The injury to your cheek. I can heal it. Be still_.”Everything from that time seemed so surreal, like it had taken place a very long time ago, maybe even in another lifetime. 

Líadan’s fingers reached out and lightly traced the scar. 

He shivered under her touch.

“Have you ever tried to have it healed?” she asked.

“Wynne tried, after Morrigan. Said the blade had been enchanted, and this was as healed as it would get. Anders has told me he’d like a shot at fixing it, though, just so he can prove he’s a better healer than Wynne.”

Líadan’s lips raised in a half-smile. “He _is_ a better healer than Wynne.”

“Do you really want his head to get even bigger? I can live with the scar.”

She saw through his bravado. “It’s a reminder, isn’t it?”

He shrugged, and once again returned to the matter of removing his cuirass. “I suppose. I’m not sure what for, anymore. Morrigan? The stupidity of youth? That darkspawn will enchant their blades to make scars even if you use magic to heal it? I don’t know.”

Her smaller, more nimble hands brushed aside his and worked at the fastenings for him. “Let me, or you’ll get to cursing.”

Once her attention was on his armor, it allowed him the chance to study her better. The firelight flickered softly on the arcs of the tattoos on her face, and his eyes traced them down her cheek, jaw, and chin to where it skipped over bare skin to make a hatched pattern at the hollow of her throat. Her keeper had given her these tattoos, and Líadan had undergone the painful procedure like all Dalish had before her—without making a sound. Even when the pattern had been etched on the tender skin of her throat, she’d somehow remained still and silent, something he didn’t think he could ever do. To the Dalish, the blood writing was a reminder of their long history, most of it lost, of adulthood and acceptance into their clan. It was a reminder of everything it meant to be Dalish. 

His scar was a reminder, but more a reminder of who he was at his worst times: young, impertinent, impetuous, and at the same time, sad and afraid. Unlike the _vallaslin_ Líadan bore, a mark of pride, his scar was a mark of near-shame. It was also a reminder of his time with Morrigan, because it marked the very beginning of what had been their relationship. It had also been the last place her hand had touched before she’d left for good. But that wasn’t important anymore, not like it had once been. While he couldn’t see the words Oghren had said to him earlier applying to Morrigan in any way, for anyone, practically _ever_ , he could see them applying here, with Líadan. Except to even speak of such a thing would risk removing her even more from her people, and she was far enough removed as it was, having to force herself to visit her ancestral clan instead of happily returning to them after a long journey. No, he wouldn’t put her through that, through more stress about being involved with a human, much less involved with an added element of permanency. 

“There,” she said, catching the cuirass as it came free and setting it next to her armor. 

He watched her carefully, eyes taking in every curve, every move and expression that he’d grown to know so well in the past year. As much as he didn’t want her to suffer any additional stress, another part of him _wanted_ everyone else to know that this was the woman he’d chosen, the woman who had chosen him, and that they’d decided to make a go of it. Then he’d have much more righteousness on his side when he told those gibbering nobles to sod off and leave them alone, that they had no right to interfere with something that no man could put asunder, not when the Maker had put it together.

And yet, in that statement rested another problem. Her culture was so vastly different from his. They worshipped different gods and believed different things. He wasn’t even sure if the Dalish practiced marriage as the Chantry would see it, and not object to. Not that he’d ask, since that’d cause the stress he was trying to avoid in the first place.

Líadan raised an eyebrow, having caught his look. “What?”

He blinked, shaking himself out of the reverie as best he could. “Nothing.”

Her hands went to her hips once she was standing in front of him again and she grinned. “I know that smile.”

He reached out and traced the delicate crosshatch at her throat. “Did this hurt?”

“That part? Not really. Not when compared to other places, like right above my eyebrow. There’s bone underneath, and not much padding, so those are the places that tend to hurt more.” She placed her hand over his. “What’s this about? Don’t think I didn’t notice that you didn’t answer my question earlier about what Oghren was talking to you for.”

“I don’t want to talk about Oghren.” To emphasize his point, he reached out with his free hand, caressing her cheek, and then cupping the back of her head. He closed the distance between them and kissed her, wanting to show her how he felt because he couldn’t just say it.

When they broke apart to breathe, she said in his ear, “I don’t want to talk about him, either.” Then her body was pressed against his, deliciously warm and soft in all the right places, and her hands were threading behind his head, urging him downward for another kiss.

He went willingly. Then he was the one doing the urging, gently moving them toward the bed, clothing discarded haphazardly, unlike the neatly stacked armor. Special attention was paid to the hollow of her throat, along with the other places he’d learned about her in the past few months that made her body sing underneath his. This was the woman he’d chosen, not the pirate down the hall who’d cast a wide net for whoever she could find, and not the other woman who’d been his first love, but had left for good to fulfill a destiny in which he could never be a part. Not either of them, but this one, warm and loving and gasping as she found her release around him. He followed in his, his face pressed in the crook of her shoulder as his hips jerked. Then the room was quiet, and so was his mind as she whispered that she loved him. He brought the covers over them, and told her the same.


	73. Chapter 73

**Chapter 73**

“Sylaise the Hearthkeeper is seen as the sister of Andruil the Huntress. While Andruil loved to run with the creatures of the wild, Sylaise preferred to stay by her home-tree, occupying herself with gentle arts and song.

It is Sylaise who gave us fire and taught us how to use it. It is Sylaise who showed us how to heal with herbs and with magic, and how to ease the passage of infants into this world. And again, it is Sylaise who showed us how to spin the fibers of plants into thread and rope.

We owe much to Sylaise, and that is why we sing to her when we kindle the fires and when we put them out. That is why we sprinkle our aravels with Sylaise’s fragrant tree-moss, and ask that she protect them and all within.”

—as told by Gisharel, keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish

**Líadan**

Líadan woke alone to an empty cabin. Since Sigrun hadn’t spent a single night in the room she and Líadan had technically been assigned aboard the _Siren’s Call_ , Malcolm had taken to sleeping here instead, freeing up space in the cabin the male Wardens had been given. Except that, right now, the place beside her in the narrow bunk was empty, and she couldn’t hear any breathing above her, where he could’ve gone if the space in the bunk had gotten too small. Revas was with Gunnar, and that meant the dogs were either on the weather deck or sleeping in the hold with the horses. So far, their time on the ship had felt safer than any other journey she’d previously made by sea. Captain Isabela, despite the rumors of her being a pirate, rumors she did nothing to deny or disprove, ran an incredibly tight ship. There were no problems with theft, and neither of the mabari had been needed to guard any of the Wardens’ belongings. Sten had taken to the trip like he did anything else—stoically. Anders was in his element, getting along easily with the crew despite his being a mage, and Líadan was somewhat certain she’d seen him pay a visit or two to the captain’s cabin. He also helped with the seasickness that Líadan and Oghren suffered from, much to Oghren’s chagrin. 

It also turned out that Sigrun _loved_ sailing. Unlike Líadan, Sigrun suffered not a whit from seasickness and never had to avail herself of Anders’ services while on the ship. Isabela and her crew were happy to tell story after story of pirates and adventure on the high seas, and before even the first day was out, the dwarf seemed to be considering a career change. It probably helped that the dwarf seemed to be spending most of her time with the ship’s captain.

Malcolm was nearly as happy about being on the ship, but for reasons entirely different from Sigrun. Isabela, once she discovered that Malcolm knew his way around a ship, didn’t restrict his access. This often meant he climbed the rigging or pitched in where he could, making Líadan wonder if she was catching glimpses of the man Malcolm could’ve been had fate chosen differently. Admittedly, seeing him this carefree and unabashedly happy was a nice thing to witness and when they disembarked tomorrow, she would be sad to see it end.

Then again, her experience in the Beyond when she slept did a good job of reminding her what they were after, and who and what they needed to save.

She’d dreamed of the yellow-eyed crow again, the one with the disturbing ability to shift into a dragon. Now she wondered if Malcolm had dreamed the same, woken, and left her to sleep while he dealt with his troubled mind. No need for that any longer, since she was now likely as disturbed as he. She rolled from the bunk and found her clothing, boots, and cloak, but left her armor. As she moved up the ladder—Malcolm and the crew _insisted_ it was called a ladder, but it certainly looked like a set of stairs to her—to the top deck, she prayed to the Creators that Malcolm wasn’t up in the rigging as he was wont to do. Sometimes, he liked climbing up to what he explained to her was called the ‘top,’ which was a platform about two-thirds of the way up the tallest mast on the three-masted ship. What Líadan couldn’t understand was why sailors had to rename everything on a ship different from what things were named on land. You gave something a name and you left it alone. You didn’t really _need_ to call it something different just because you happened to be floating on water. But when she’d said that out loud, the only people who’d agreed with her had been the dwarves. Sten had remained glowering, Anders had remained silent, and the elves and humans of Isabela’s crew had just shaken their heads in amusement. Obviously, despite Malcolm saying she could be the Grey Lady of the Seas if she really wanted, she wasn’t meant to be a sailor of any sort, much less a pirate.

Líadan closed the hatch—Creators, it was a _door_ —once she was on the top deck, also known as the weather deck, because it was exposed to the weather. At least that name change made sense. Up top, it was still night, stars shining in a clear sky along with a full moon providing plenty of light for those on watch. Human or elf, once a lamp was used, night vision went with it, and those responsible for sailing the ship needed to keep their ability to see in the scant light. Therefore, they sailed only by star and moonlight. She squinted up at the rigging and only saw one of the elven crew members tying something near the corner of one of the sails. An offer of thanks given to the Creators, Líadan made her way to the bow of the ship, and found Malcolm where she figured she’d find him—lounging on his back in the safety netting around the bowsprit and staring up at the night sky. She stood for a moment at the railing, not particularly wanting to climb out over the dark water. But, Malcolm would be there, and it wasn’t so bad when he was there. After a quick inhalation of breath, she clambered over the railing and crawled out onto the netting.

Malcolm lifted his head and grinned when he caught sight of her. His smile and the view of his face lighting up like that, something he’d only recently shown so openly, sent a thrill of sudden, strong emotion through her. Even now, she was surprised and almost frightened to name the emotion for what it was: love. She wondered if her face brightened in the same way when she saw him after an absence, and if her clan would notice if she did.

The thoughts were roughly shoved away. That would be something to consider later, when they were closer to the Mahariel. There was enough on her mind after dreaming of the crow, and she wanted cheering up and distraction, not more gloom.

He opened his cloak to welcome her and she settled in next to him, not realizing how chilled she’d been until she felt his warmth. Their position gave them a good view of the very tops of the masts and the stars behind them. He kissed her ear and quietly asked, “Nightmare?”

She nodded. “The crow. You, too?”

“Yes, the crow.” He pointed up at the top of the tallest mast with his left hand, the one not draped around her shoulders. “They keep a crow up there, you know. I climbed up earlier today to make sure it had normal, black _bird_ eyes and not a creepy-supernatural-something-else eyes.”

“Why would there be a crow on a ship? They have wings. They can just fly wherever they want, no need to rely on ships.”

“Well, you know the term ‘as the crow flies?’” He waited for her to nod before continuing his explanation, “When it’s foggy, really foggy, and the crew can’t locate the shore, they let the crow go. It’ll fly straight for the nearest land, without fail. No one knows how crows just _know_ where the land is, but that’s how it works.” He his shoulders drooped a little in a sign of resignation and not relaxation. “I was hoping the dream was coincidental, but I guess not.”

Líadan made a face. “At least they haven’t increased in frequency. That’s as optimistic as I can get where _Asha’belannar_ is concerned.”

“She does tend to hamper the expression of optimism. I wonder if it runs in the family. I mean, Morrigan was never particularly optimistic.”

“No, she was very much a realist. Pragmatic. Many people, including myself, made the mistake of thinking she was heartless because of it. Sometimes, it was easier to believe that than to believe that someone could feel, and yet still do things they might’ve hated in the path of completing a task more important than their feelings.”

“And now?”

She shrugged. “Now I’ve realized I misjudged my friend. And I hope, at some point, she can find happiness even with what she still has left to do.”

“Me, too.” He pulled her closer, and her head rested against his shoulder. 

They lapsed into silence, the slight movement of the ship beginning to lull Líadan into a light sleep. Then Malcolm, apparently not as lulled as she was, suddenly asked, “Random question: do Dalish elves have birthdays?”

She jumped a little at the intrusion of voice on where she’d been at the edge of sleep. When she answered, she kept her eyes closed, hoping to find that precipice of sleep again and leap over it. “Of course not. We believe that we spring fully-formed from the head of Elgar’nan.”

Malcolm was silent for a moment, and Líadan started falling back asleep. Then he shifted, and she knew he was peering down at her. “Really?” he asked.

A sigh escaped her lips. “No, not really.”

He paused again, drumming his fingers on her arm. “You know, your answer might be one of the reasons why people think the Dalish are so arrogant.”

“Only to stupid humans like you who _fall_ for that sort of straight face would think that. You must be more tired than I thought. You usually aren’t the stereotypical shem.”

“And you don’t use that word very often anymore, I’ve noticed.”

“Maybe because I don’t see very many shemlen anymore.” Her mouth twisted into a slight frown. “Except there was that captain who refused to transport us because I was with the group.” She’d discovered, that while they’d traveled most of Ferelden in their search, she hadn’t run into as much racism as she’d found in Denerim and the other larger cities, like Amaranthine. Experiencing it in such a blatant way after a time without it had been a shock. She wondered just how much of the racism Velanna must have encountered with her clan, to be so violently bitter as she’d been, even before the disappearances of her sister and niece. Then again, Velanna might not have interacted with shemlen any more than Líadan had. Elves weren’t exempt from being racist. The Dalish, especially, tended to give as good as they got, when given the opportunity. Líadan had done it herself, and some of that racism had fueled her decision to kill those humans that morning when they’d found the eluvian for the first time. The thought brought back the memory, and more seriousness, and the encroaching _guilt_ , and she decided she really wanted nothing of it right then. So she employed a tactic she’d learned from Malcolm and Alistair, angling for humor laced with truth and just a dash of the absurd. “You know, if we had griffons, I bet everyone would want to transport us, just to see them. It wouldn’t matter what any of us were.”

“You may have a point. But, if we had griffons, would you even ride them? I mean, they fly, and you don’t like heights.” He angled his head up to look at the masts. “And, even with what you said the other day about being graceful, you’d make a poor sailor. I can’t imagine you climbing up on that rigging. Wait, yes I can. You’d make it a quarter of the way up, and then promptly freeze in fear. If you somehow got all the way up to the crow’s nest, you’d probably have a stroke if you looked down.”

She wanted to deny his prediction, but she knew it to be sadly true. Unless there was a life on the line, there wasn’t any way she was climbing up any of that rigging. However, it wasn’t like Malcolm really needed to _say_ it. She scowled. “I hope you get eaten by a spider.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say! Especially given the size of the spiders we tend to encounter. And don’t go saying that those spiderlings in the ruins weren’t any danger to us. They totally were. There were _hundreds_ of them. They could’ve worked together to take us down. In fact, they were probably coming up with plans on how to do so in those devious spider minds of theirs.”

The image of Malcolm cowering behind her as the rest of them studied a nest full of almost adorable baby spiders passed through her mind. Then she remembered Malcolm’s reaction the other night when he’d found a tiny spider crawling on their bunk, sounding like a little girl with his surprised scream. While he’d remained plastered to the other side of the cabin, she’d had to deal with the spider, ignoring his requests of “Kill it! Kill it with fire!” in favor of taking the poor thing to the top deck. Her body started shaking as the giggles took over.

“You’re thinking of that spider from last night, aren’t you? The one you _refused_ to kill.”

She kept giggling, unable to answer. Which, really, was confirmation enough.

“You can stop laughing at me any time now.”

“Can’t!” She did do her best to stifle the laughs as she said in between them, “I knew children who had more courage than you.”

“I have plenty of courage!”

She managed to quiet long enough to give him a dubious look. 

He sighed in acknowledgement. “So long as it doesn’t involve spiders. Everything else, I can stand up to. I mean, I bet those children would run screaming like little girls from, say, a dragon.”

“That’s because they were little girls. They’re _supposed_ to react like that.” Then she resumed laughing, pressing her face into his unarmored chest. 

Malcolm huffed indignantly and suffered her humor for only another few moments. Then he grasped her by the shoulders and rolled, pinning her between him and the netting. The move changed her laughs to a gasp of surprise, and then it was her turn to glare indignantly. Her hands came up to push against his chest, but the motion was half-hearted, and despite the protest of her glare, her body rather liked the warmth and security of his over hers. He noticed the change right away and acted, dipping his head to caress her lips with his. At his insistence, she opened her mouth, deepening the kiss as her hands slid over his sides to dig at his back. This, she decided, was certainly a far better alternative to suffering through another possible nightmare. 

Somewhere above them, a throat cleared, and then the clear voice of the ship’s captain said, “There is to be absolutely _no_ fornication on my ship.”

Líadan groaned and covered her face. She’d thought Malcolm’s cloak, coupled with the darkness, had hidden them from view. And they hadn’t even _gotten_ to the fornication part. They’d barely made it to kissing. They broke apart anyway, rolling over and sitting up to see Isabela perched on the railing just in front of the bowsprit, ankles crossed, and her mouth set in a saucy smile. 

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “Really, Captain Isabela?” His tone left nothing to question that he was referring to Isabela’s own actions with their fellow Warden that they all knew had taken place on the ship in addition to back at the Plough and Harrow.

His question brought a bout of bubbly laughter from the Rivaini, and then she winked at them. “Well, not without my express permission or involvement, anyway. Now, as much fun as it looks like it would be to engage in that sort of activity out there, I’m not quite sure it’s safe enough for that. Were you to roll off and into the ocean, I don’t know that we’d be able to find you in the darkness. Then your kingly brother would be all angry, and the Grey Wardens even angrier than him that I lost the two of you, and I’d be incredibly embarrassed at having to describe exactly how you met your demise, wrapped up in the throes of passion.”

It was Líadan’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Throes of passion? That’s really a human phrase?”

Malcolm nodded. “I think it was in one of those books that Wynne read during the Blight. You know, when you thought she was being scholarly, but she was really reading dirty stories. The book repeated that phrase several times.”

“Oh! I wonder which one,” said Isabela. “Was it _Hessarian’s Spear_?”

“No,” said Malcolm. “Can’t say I recall that title.”

She pursed her lips. “ _The Rose of Orlais_?”

“Yes! That was the one.”

“And just how would you know what was written in that book unless you read it yourself?” asked Líadan.

Malcolm ducked his head, unsuccessfully trying to hide the flush on his cheeks. “Leliana used to start reading to me from it whenever she wanted me to go away. One time, I tried to be stubborn and stay, and I still wish I hadn’t tried that. There are phrases and images burned into my mind that will never be erased.”

Líadan grinned. “I have to say, that’s a bit brilliant on her part. I never would’ve thought of that.”

“That’s because you don’t read dirty books.”

“Or I hide it well. Maybe I even have an entire stash of them that you don’t know about.”

“You... I...” Malcolm trailed off and stared at her. At first, she managed to keep a straight face, but when Isabela burst into laughter, Líadan followed suit. Malcolm grumbled something about women and climbed back onto the deck. Then he headed in the direction of the ladder to the lower decks while flinging a rude gesture over his shoulder.

Still laughing, Líadan made her way to the deck as well, coming to a stop next to Isabela. She’d tried several times to find out exactly what the pirate’s business was in Val Royeaux, but the other woman had yet to come clean. Every time she asked, Isabela had changed the subject, hit on her, or one time, mentioned something about making her eyes into a necklace. As disturbing as that image was, the curiosity still plagued her. It was the curiosity she’d carried since she was a small child, and the same curiosity that’d led her and Tamlen into the ruins. A curiosity, it seemed, she wouldn’t give up, even after all that’d happened in her life to teach her that she should. “Cumberland tomorrow?”

“Yes. We should make port by midday. If we’re lucky, perhaps a couple hours before that.”

“And Val Royeaux after? To...” Líadan let the question hover to see if she could get Isabela to bite. 

She did, but not with anything truly useful. “I have a package to pick up. Let’s leave it at that, shall we? You and your prince don’t want to involve yourselves in any messes of mine. Trust me.” She tilted her head to the side. “Actually, don’t trust me. Pirates aren’t really the type to trust. How about you trust in the fact that neither of you should worry your pretty little heads about the errands I need to complete after I drop you off? It’s better this way.” She put her hands on her hips. “Now. You need to see about that man of yours. He looked fairly put out.”

Líadan narrowed her eyes. “You’re the one who—”

“That was all about your safety! I was only being considerate. Out of concern. And... perhaps a little jealousy. But mostly concern.” She made a dismissive motion with her hand. “Now go.”

It appeared she wasn’t going to get any further with her questioning of Isabela, now or ever. Suppressing a huff, Líadan turned and headed for the lower decks. As she walked down the passageway, which looked suspiciously like a hallway to her, she decided she was still awake enough to finish the endeavor they’d started out on the netting of the bowsprit. They should’ve known better than to start anything near the bow of a ship, if prior experience was anything to go by. First time had been a wave of cold water, second time, a mostly concerned and slightly jealous pirate captain. Best not test a third time. The hatch was open a crack and she nudged inside, closing it quietly behind her. 

Then she stopped.

Malcolm was sitting on the deck instead of the bunk, his back leaning against the bulkhead, his legs stretched out in front of him. In his hand, he rolled what looked like a piece of some of the horrid hardtack ships kept in stock and insisted were edible. Líadan had heard one of the crew call it a dog biscuit within earshot of Gunnar and Revas, and it’d made both dogs growl at the poor sailor. They were so nasty that even the dogs refused to consume them, and that said a lot, because she’d seen both mabari eat things no person would ever consider to be in the realm of edible. Her eyes moved from the biscuit to Malcolm’s face, and his expression had changed drastically from just a little while before when he’d looked annoyed, and yet amused and trying not to show it. Instead, his eyes had become troubled and his manner despondent, as if struck by a dark memory and unable to chase it away. This, she could tell, had nothing to do with the crow problem, either in the mortal realm or in the Beyond. She took a step closer. He finally reacted to her presence by looking up and giving her a wan smile. 

It didn’t touch his eyes at all.

She frowned in concern and sat next to him, unsure of where the melancholy had come from. The past couple of months had left him bright, so much so that she’d wondered if that was what he’d been like before the Blight, before his foster family had been killed and he’d been conscripted into the Wardens. Yet the man sitting next to her now was very much like the one she’d first met in the Brecilian Forest, a young man hounded by guilt. “What is it?” She avoided asking him what was wrong, because that would invariably get the immediate answer of “nothing.” It wasn’t like she could complain—she did it, too.

“Isabela’s comment reminded me.”

“Of?”

His fingers broke the biscuit in half, and he chucked one of the halves at the bulkhead across the cabin. “The part about rolling into the ocean in the dark.” He took a breath, held it, and then released it at what seemed like the last possible second. “Astrid fell off the ship at night. Crew couldn’t find her in the darkness. Wasn’t total darkness, though. One second there was lightning and everything was brilliantly lit up, and then the next, we were plunged into night. I saw her once, before she went under, slapping uselessly at the waves.”

Drowning certainly wasn’t one of her top choices for ways to die, nor was it something she’d wish on others. It was far too close to suffocation, which was also, coincidentally, low on her list. Given the manner in which she was doomed to go—by darkspawn in the Deep Roads—the ancient _elvhenan_ practice of _uthenera_ looked better and better all the time. If only they hadn’t lost the ability to practice it. “I’m sorry,” she said, not knowing what else to say. She’d known Astrid had died at sea, but no one had told her the details. From what she understood, people died or were lost at sea all the time. Malcolm’s natural father had even died that way. Sailed off on some ship and never returned, eventually presumed dead. Líadan, like many others, hadn’t exactly been sad to see Astrid go. There was the remorse for the loss of life, but it didn’t go much further than that. 

Malcolm let out a soft, rueful chuckle. “A part of me went with her. I’d thought I’d be able to forget about it, force it out of my mind, set it aside. I thought I’d be okay traveling by ship, especially in fair weather.” He glanced up at the wooden planks over them. “I guess not.”

Líadan realized she was missing something, a key piece of information that he seemed to know quite well, and that she had no clue about. “What do you mean?”

He answered her, but it was disjointed, like her questions weren’t registering, and his answers were incidentally related to what she asked. “There was a storm. She got seasick like you do. No mage on board, so she had to spent a lot of time topside. I... I just always thought I wasn’t _that_ kind of person, someone who could kill another like that in cold blood. It wasn’t the heat of the moment, I wasn’t overtaken by emotion, nothing like that. It was calculated. I thought it through, reasoned out why it had to be done, and how I would accomplish it. It’s... it isn’t like with darkspawn or hapless bandits. I mean, I feel _sorry_ for the bandits, but I don’t feel too much guilt about killing them when they’re trying to kill me and take my stuff. She wasn’t even—she was sick. She was so _human_ and _vulnerable_ , heaving her guts out over the side of the ship. I couldn’t even look her in the eye when I did it. Worse than stabbing her in the back, not giving her a clean death.”

For a moment, Líadan was taken aback at the confession. She hadn’t thought Malcolm the coldblooded killer, either. That had been Zevran, the trained assassin. It made sense, though, killing Astrid. She was fairly certain any of the people present at Highever who’d known her role in what had happened would’ve done the same. Killing Astrid had removed a danger to a great many people. “Even if she didn’t attack you directly, she was a threat.”

“I know.” Malcolm sighed, and still didn’t look over at her. “I mean, I know intellectually. It’s what I told myself then and what I tell myself now, but that hasn’t alleviated the guilt. It’s hard to reconcile a threat to your country and everyone you love when they’re sick as a dog over the railing of a ship. It’s hard to reconcile that I’m the one who...” He struggled then as he forced himself to say the actual words. “Who pushed her into the ocean. Who killed her. I know Grey Wardens aren’t the epitome of honor that the legends make them out to be, but there’s something to be said about personal honor. For Maker’s sake, I was raised _better_ than that. Even the man who killed the family who raised me got a better death than she did. And her sins were nowhere near as bad as _his_. Her heart was in the right place, even if her head was a little muddled.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “A little?”

It got him to smile, if just a little. “Okay, a lot muddled, but you know what I mean.”

Líadan played with the loose threads at the edges of her linen shirt. “Does Hildur know?”

“Yes.”

Relief surged through her at hearing that. It would’ve been an awkward letter, otherwise. Not that Líadan, personally, would’ve advocated anything other than a letter of commendation, but still. Awkward. “And what did she say?”

His answer was reluctant. “That I did the right thing.”

“What about Riordan?” Though, if Riordan hadn’t known, Líadan would’ve been completely shocked. That man had known _everything_ that went on. 

“He knew.”

For once, her patience remained in place. She knew Malcolm wasn’t being difficult just for the sake of being difficult. There were connections being made in his mind, emotions brought out and tamed. It wasn’t a fast process, not if it was to stick. “And?”

“And he said the same. Also, he said that Fiona would’ve wanted to kill Astrid herself, to save me from... this, I suppose.”

A flare of anguish hit her, more personal than sympathy for what Malcolm was experiencing, a reaction to the memory of Fiona. Even after all these months, the ragged wound of her sudden death still hurt. “You didn’t... you didn’t see her when you were gone.” A crooked smile found its way to her lips as she recognized the obviousness of her statement. “Right. Of course you didn’t, because you weren’t there. But... she... she was beside herself and somehow kept it under control, if barely, if you knew her. She forced herself, and me, to go to Kal’Hirol and let the King’s men search for you. She told me later that it was the only way she could stay sane, and she was right. Creators, it was relentless, the thoughts, the wondering if you were dead or hurt or stranded, where you could be, and the worrying was like being suffocated. As the days went by, it didn’t retreat or fade in the least. It just got worse.”

His brow furrowed, and the biscuit went still. “I wonder if that’s what it was like for her when she gave us up.”

A small laugh escaped as Líadan heard him wonder the very same as she had. “I asked her that. She said no, and that...” She paused as she tried to remember Fiona’s exact words. “She said, ‘If it had been like this after I gave them to Maric, I would have been in Ferelden and taking them back in an instant.’ Those were her exact words, I think. And I believe her, because there’s no way anyone could live under that unrelenting worry if they had a way to change it.”

Malcolm’s hands twisted the hardtack, snapping it in half once more. He flicked part of it away with his fingers. “I can’t help thinking... I just... I murdered a woman in cold blood, and when I’m finally able to get home, I find out that my natural mother is dead, too. I wonder if it was connected, somehow. Sometimes. It’s ridiculous, I know, and a really self-centered thought, because, honestly, what kind of person thinks that a god would be paying personal attention to them just to persecute them? But, there it is. I took Astrid, so the Maker took Fiona.” His voice became harsh and castigating. “Maybe, just _maybe_ , I should’ve talked to her more and concentrated less on duty.” He tossed the last bit of hardtack away and glared at it. Like, Líadan suspected, he wanted to glare at himself.

She shrugged and tried to sound lighthearted. “Or maybe you just did the best you could and life just happened, since life tends to do that.” When he didn’t say anything, she went on, saying, “Also, that kind of trick sounds more like Fen’Harel than your Maker. Isn’t your Maker missing, anyway? Like the elven Creators?”

“Not missing, exactly. Turned His back on Thedas. And don’t change the subject.”

She saw his slight smirk, all the same. “I was just making an observation. Means it wasn’t His doing, if He’s in that hands-off mode at the moment.” Líadan wondered if this was what her keeper felt like sometimes, speaking to someone who believed they’d done wrong, when even though it looked messy, they’d done the most right thing they could do at the time, and trying to alleviate just a fraction of their guilt. “I think you did what needed to be done.” She held up a hand to hold off Malcolm’s forthcoming protest. “I know you must’ve heard it before if Riordan knew and Hildur knows, but I’m not sure your mind was really listening. Had you not killed her—there, I said it, and I don’t hate you—more people would have died. Alistair might not have declared war on the Chantry, but you can be sure he would’ve contacted the Crows. And you know Weisshaupt would have—what’s the term I heard Sigrun use once?—flipped their shit when they found out. Georg would’ve had his Wardens march on the Chantry because they would’ve been a threat to the Order, depending on what they could get out of you. And if you somehow escaped without killing Astrid before getting to Val Royeaux, she wouldn’t have stopped. She was determined, absolutely determined to see her mission, whatever it was in her head, through. To her, you were the key to a solution to what she saw as the greatest threat of all: the darkspawn and the future Blights. Nothing would have changed her mind or stopped her, nothing short of death, anyway.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “Besides, I always figure cold-blooded killers wouldn’t act so mopey about their kills. Zevran never acted this way.”

He nudged her back, and cracked a smile that remained, however little it was. “True. He certainly didn’t. He’d be appalled, really, and call my work sloppy.”

“And fuss about your lack of stealth, I’m sure.” Líadan reached out and took one of his hands in hers before his smile faded again. Her face scrunched into a playful scowl as she remembered something Marethari had taught her from the _Vir Atish’an_ , the Way of Peace, a path hunters on the _Vir Tanadahl_ did not follow. “Here’s something that Marethari passed to me. It’s good, in part, that you regret what you did. It keeps you from becoming what you fear you are. Yet while the power of regret must be respected, you cannot let it embrace you. If you do, it will poison you against the gifts of life. Take what happened, study it, and then let it go, lest you find that the one regretted act defines who you are.”

He finally looked up at her, giving her hand a squeeze at the same time. His eyes were damp, but clear, the trouble faded into the background. “You learned that from Marethari?”

“It’s from the _Vir Atish’an_ , the Way of Peace.”

“I thought most Dalish learned the other one.” He screwed up his face in thought as he tried to remember the right words. “The _Vir..._ ”

“ _Tanadahl_ ,” she said, taking pity on him. That, and she didn’t want to hear him mangle the language more than he already did. Admittedly, he’d picked up on enough, but he wasn’t good with the subtleties, or the accent, or good at speaking Elvish at all if under pressure. He did, however, have a decent understanding of the culture, if not entirely the language behind it. “The Way of the Three Trees. Hunters learn it. The Way of Peace is another path, one for healers.”

“Marethari taught you _that_? Why? You couldn’t heal a—”

Líadan removed her hands from his and fixed him with a glare. “Go ahead, keep going down that path. That’s the Way of the Not Getting Laid in the Near Future.”

“Kind of an unwieldy title. Is that even a Dalish verse? They’re usually more poetic than that.”

Given the melancholy from earlier, she felt this was an improvement in his attitude, though an incredibly obnoxious one. She rolled her eyes. “Fine. I won’t tell you. You can ask Keeper Marethari yourself when we see her.”

“That’s fine. Was it supposed to be a threat?”

“In Elvish.”

He opened his mouth for a retort, and then promptly shut it.

The next morning found the Wardens on the weather deck, most at the railings, eagerly watching the horizon for the appearance of a shoreline. Sten stood at the bow, arms folded over his chest, and his perpetually dour look focused on the sea. Isabela had somehow appeared beside him, though the qunari refused to acknowledge her presence. Líadan watched, curious, since Isabela had done to Sten what she’d done to Isabela several times over the past few days—peppered the other person with questions.

Isabela gave Sten a good up and down look before tapping her index finger on one of her full lips. “You... hmm.” She paused, waiting to see if he would respond. When he didn’t, she continued, undaunted. “All the qunari I’ve seen have possessed horns. Did you cut yours off?”

Sten didn’t break from his gaze on the ocean. “No.”

The captain frowned, more in puzzlement than ire. “Then... where are they?”

“I was not born with them.”

That drew a smirk. “Ah. A defect, then?”

“No.”

The frown came back, this time with some consternation. “So this has been known to happen?”

“Yes.”

Líadan was doing her best not to laugh out loud, and her body was shaking from the effort. She could feel Malcolm’s tall form behind her, having made his way from below. She glanced at him, and he shot her a questioning look, glancing between Isabela and Sten. Líadan waved him off, hoping he’d get the message to keep quiet and that she’d explain later. After a moment, he nodded, and remained beside her as they watched.

Isabela sighed, throwing a brief looked of acknowledgement in the direction of her small audience before returning her attention to Sten. “Look, if you don’t give me some information, qunari, I will not cease in asking you questions. I will be relentless. I will not stop. I might not even let you off my ship when we dock in Cumberland.”

“ _Parshaara_. It is not worth the silence.” He sighed and looked down at her. “Qunari born without horns are considered special, as we are meant for special roles in the Qun. This is the reason I was given the role of Sten and sent to find the answer to the Arishok’s question.”

The captain folded her arms over her ample breasts in mirror—or mockery, it was hard to tell—of Sten’s pose. “Yes, I can see that you’re having a lot of luck with that.”

Sten returned his gaze to the sea. “The answer will be found.”

Though, none of the onlookers were sure whether or not the answer was meant for Isabela or himself. If Isabela had more questions, they were put off by one of the sailors on watch sighting land, urging everyone aboard ship into more dedicated action. Isabela gave Malcolm and Líadan a smile, and told them to pack their gear and see to the horses and dogs. “We’re less than an hour from port. Don’t bother cleaning anything in your cabin, just leave the hatch open. I’ve crew to take care of it.”

“Why can’t it just be called a door, like on land?” Líadan asked Malcolm.

He gave her a blank look. “Because we’re on a ship and not on land? It’s not so bad. You know the basics. It isn’t like you’ve had to learn about the foremast or the mizzenmast, the topgallant mast, royal mast, skysails, studded sails, spankers—”

“That,” said Isabella, giving Malcolm the kind of look she’d given him when they first met in West Hill, “might just be the most delectable string of words you have ever uttered in my presence.” She dropped a hand to her hip and turned to Líadan. “May I keep him? I was going to ask to borrow your Warden Sigrun for at least two weeks every summer, but I believe I must ask for the use of two of you now, after hearing that just roll effortlessly from his lips.”

Líadan stared at the pirate captain. She’d thought they’d reached a friendly accord after the stern and negotiating looks exchanged during the card games at the Plough and Harrow. Though Isabela hadn’t stopped her teasing, it had lost its predatory edge, and Líadan had been fine with that. The only woman she truly found herself worrying about was Morrigan. However, Isabela’s brazen approach still drew shock. 

The captain laughed at Líadan’s expression, but not unkindly. It was a warm, friendly laugh, reminding Líadan that she was only teasing. Mostly. Meaning, that were permission ever given, she would happily leap over the line. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly allow you to be left behind. If all is agreed, you should come with them. Yes! All three of you. Sigrun wouldn’t mind, I’m sure. It would be wonderful.”

“Well.” Líadan glanced over at Malcolm, who seemed to have taken a great interest in his boots. “You did say you always wanted to be a pirate.”

Confusion brushed across his face as he turned to look at Líadan. “I did.” He rubbed at the stubble on his jaw. “I did say that.” He tilted his head as if truly considering it. “Maybe... No, wait, I meant that when I was a _child_. I’ve got... stuff... to do. I’ll be damned if I can remember what that stuff is right now, but there’s a whole list of things, and they’re important. Warden things.” A blush had worked its way to his cheeks.

“What? Wardens don’t take vacations?” asked Isabela.

Malcolm peered at her as if trying to decide if she was for real. Then it seemed he gave up, because he mumbled something about needing to pack, did an about face, and headed back to the lower decks. Isabela burst into contagious laughter, and then set to ordering around her crew.

As the Wardens departed the ship in Cumberland, Isabela said, “If you change your minds, look for me at the Pearl in Denerim.” Then she tossed a wink before the ship cast off and sailed for Val Royeaux.


	74. Chapter 74

**Chapter 74**

“There is never a shortage of hunters. The Vir Tanadahl, the Way of the Three Trees, has lured many to Andruil’s side. The Vir Atish’an, the Way of Peace, is a harder path to tread, and few are called to hear Sylaise’s wisdom.”

—from _The Way of Peace,_ as told by Gisharel, Keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish

**Líadan**

It took a full day of riding from Cumberland after spending a night in the Grey Warden compound to reach the edges of the Planasene Forest. They were at least afforded the ability of sticking to the main trail through the forest toward the pass near Kirkwall, because if any Dalish clans, including the Mahariel, were currently living in the forest, there would be hunters watching the main thoroughfare. While traders and the like would normally be ignored and probably never even realize they were under the surveillance of Dalish hunters, the sight of an elf bearing the _vallaslin_ would be cause for introductions. The first day in the forest passed without incident, and it wasn’t until the second day that they ran into a party of hunters. To her disappointment—and, at the same time, relief—they weren’t of the Mahariel. Just a pack of hunters and their apprentices from the Iahmel clan, usually found in the Vimmark Mountains, out for a jaunt. Their leader told the Wardens they had last heard of the Mahariel being camped at the base of Sundermount, near Kirkwall.

“We’re going to have to go there, aren’t we?” Anders asked after the hunters had melted back into the trees. “To Kirkwall.”

Malcolm frowned at him. “She said Sundermount, not Kirkwall. What’s the big deal about it, anyway? It’s not like the templars are going to just grab you from off the street.”

“I’ve just... I heard it’s different there. Not like Ferelden. The templars have a lot more power.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re a Grey Warden. They can bitch all they want, but you—or Líadan, for that matter—aren’t going in any Circle. If anything, you should _want_ to go into Kirkwall because of that. You can just flaunt your Grey Warden status and make a big ruckus, run over to the Chantry, do magic on their front steps, do some magical dance in front of the templar barracks, even, and they couldn’t do a sodding thing about it. I think the only thing you’d have to draw the line at is blood magic, because for that, I think the policy is kill first, and while dancing over the body in victory, not really even bother considering asking questions. So, your Warden status wouldn’t do much in the case of you being dead. Other than that, have at it. Really. Get it out of your system. We’d even be in another country, so we wouldn’t have to worry about Alistair getting complaints from the Chantry about the Fereldan Wardens flaunting their free status in their faces.”

Anders rubbed at his stubble. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Really?” asked Sigrun. “And all that talk about your Spicy Shimmy. I’m appalled.”

“I guess I’m still not used to being a Warden and not having to worry about the templars being after me.”

Malcolm shrugged. “It’s fine. Besides, we probably won’t need to go into the city, not if the Mahariel are actually at Sundermount. I mean, unless we find out that Morrigan or what Morrigan’s after is in Kirkwall. Then we’d have to go. But we still have to find the Mahariel first. It’ll take three more days to reach them if they’re really there.”

By the second of the three days, Líadan fought near constant apprehension about seeing her former clan again. Malcolm noticed, giving her looks, at times, but didn’t pry. Sigrun asked, and Líadan managed to avoid answering by changing the subject to testing out the new spyglass Isabela had given her while they’d been aboard the _Siren’s Call_. Sten remained himself, Anders seemed mostly oblivious, and Oghren gave her a couple raised eyebrows, but said nothing.

They stopped for the night a half-day’s ride from the base of Sundermount, where the Iahmel hunters had said the Mahariel clan was currently camped. Once all camp-related chores had been completed, Líadan immediately went for the safety of her books and notes within the confines of her tent. It was easier if she wasn’t out at the fire with the rest of them. That way none of them could slide in any unsuspecting questions and cause her to spill out all her troubling thoughts. It wasn’t like she could really properly word them, anyway. How exactly did you explain to your friends that your people might view you as a traitor? That you hadn’t really considered the personal reactions of your people because you’d assumed you would never see them again? You didn’t, that’s what. And so she opened her journal, intending to study one of the books and translate more. Instead, she ended up staring at one of the eluvian sketches and reading absolutely nothing while wondering how she’d gone from two months ago at Alistair’s wedding, wishing there was a way for her to formally bond with Malcolm, to now, not knowing how she should _act_ with him when they were within the eyesight of her former clan.

The tent flap opened and she glanced up in time to see Malcolm duck inside. For a moment, it seemed he was going to ask her something, but for some reason, changed his mind. Instead, he grabbed his pack, slid it so it was next to hers, and propped himself against it, as she was already doing with her own. Then he frowned, turned, and dug a book out of it, apparently intending on doing some translating work as well. She saw from the worn, tattered cover that it was the Architect’s journal. Seeing that, she repressed a shudder, and went back to staring at the sketch in the journal on her lap. It took some doing, but she soon managed to forget Malcolm’s warm presence next to her, even getting to the point where she turned the page and attempted to read some of the notes. But every other sentence reminded her of the lessons she’d learned as a Dalish elf, both as a child learning to become a hunter, and later, as one of the People gifted with magic. Lessons that would now condemn her for what she’d chosen.

“You know,” Malcolm said, startling Líadan out of her thoughts, “if it will make it easier, I’m willing to act like we aren’t... together, while we’re visiting your former clan, if you want.”

The guilt within her swelled at both hearing his compromise and realizing that she hadn’t instantly and instinctively reject his offer. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice weaker than she’d thought it’d be. How she was even considering it, she had no idea. Malcolm had suffered through whatever hardships his own people had put him through about being with her, and never once denied it or shied away from her in public. And here she was, thinking of not doing the same for him. After all she’d said to him about never being ashamed of who she was, it threw her to see that it seemed she _was_ ashamed. It had been easier, for her, with those humans, and with the city elves, since they did not know her. The Mahariel, though, they had known her since she had drawn her first breaths. They had sent her away, and yet, she found she still wanted, and even craved, the ability to make them proud. 

She still remembered one of the last things Keeper Marethari had said to her before she’d been forced to leave with the Wardens: _“I know you’ll do your clan proud, da’len.”_

For them to find out that she had fallen in love with a shem, even wished, at times, that she could formally bond with him, would be a bitter disappointment to them, no matter what else she’d done since she’d been forced to leave the clan. She could feel Marethari’s disappointed frown already, and hers wouldn’t be the only one focused on her. It really wouldn’t even matter to them that she most likely would never have children—which, in of itself, as one of the People carrying the gift of magic in her and her line, was a betrayal—the act of having chosen was still there. It wasn’t like she was dallying with a shem, something tolerated, if barely, as long as a child wasn’t produced. No, she’d gone and fallen in love with a man belonging to a race that had nearly wiped out hers, and being with him would contribute to continuing that end. But she loved him. What kind of person was she, to deny that after what they’d gone through? “I don’t know,” she said out loud again, unable to look over at Malcolm.

“I...” His voice caught, and he had to start again. “I wish I could say I understand. I can sympathize, as much as it’s possible for a non-elf. I won’t think less of you or feel diminished, or at least, I’ll try not to.”

She stole a glance at him, and while his face remained composed, his eyes did not. The pained look in them told her that he’d rather walk through hot coals and kneel on a pile of broken glass than go through with what he’d offered.

A thrill of fear went through her, that if she remained separate from him while they were visiting the Mahariel, he might begin to feel differently. That he would remember more and more about his relationship with Morrigan during the Blight, and his love for Morrigan would return to the state it had been during that time, and then when they found Morrigan, he would leave with her. That he would leave with Morrigan, and Líadan would be left without him. She didn’t want that to happen, not at all.

And yet, if she went through with this plan of acting like they weren’t together, if she couldn’t face her people and tell them who she loved, she wasn’t sure if she deserved him after all. She wanted to proclaim it, but the disapproving faces, the disappointed expressions... Velanna had been test enough, but to see the condemnation in the eyes of all she had once known as family? It felt like everything inside was being slowly pulled in two completely different directions. “I don’t...” _I don’t want to even have to contemplate this._

“I guess you don’t have to say right now. I’ll follow your lead, when it comes to it.”

She leaned her head back against her pack and covered her eyes with one of her hands. “I don’t know. I just don’t.”

“Well, if we go with my offer, I’ll take solace in the fact that meeting Keeper Marethari again won’t be as difficult as I’d been anticipating. She’s only, like, the closest person you have to a mother, and a really powerful mage, and talking with her with the idea that she knew what we’d been... up to... together _was_ rather frightening to contemplate.”

Líadan felt a twinge of amusement, and removed her hand so she could give him a small smile. “Her disappointed frown is actually a lot more powerful than her magic. And... I really wish I were joking about that.”

The sides of his mouth curved upward. “See! I knew it had to be something desperately scary to put you out of sorts, since you’re never scared of anything.” He tilted his head to the side, as if reconsidering. “Well, except heights, but I don’t remember Marethari being overly tall, so if you, for some reason, have to ride on her shoulders, it wouldn’t be that scary.”

Which brought an absolutely ridiculous image into her mind, because she was half a head taller than Marethari, and she was, well, the _keeper_ , and Líadan laughed. 

In turn, Malcolm grinned. “Good. You should do that more. The laughing thing, much more preferable to the other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“The scowly thing you’ve been doing the past couple of days. The look you’ve had makes me kind of skittish. In my experience, it leads to lightning from your fingertips aimed at sensitive areas. Which, when it comes to lightning, is everywhere. I far prefer the laughing. I’d almost go as far as to say it’s cute, but the scowly thing does get kind of adorable in that ‘if she knew what I was thinking, she’d _kill_ me’ kind of way, so I’ll call that a draw.” He paused. “Okay, that right now? That’s the scowly look. I totally take back the adorable thing if it’ll make you stop.”

She broke into a smile, despite her slight irritation of finding out that he thought she was adorable when she was mad and not actually frightened in the least. “Deal.” If she was honest with herself, she did feel a little better. It was a talent of his, to be able to cajole her out of these moods, even if for a little while, and even if he’d caused the mood. This time, he hadn’t, not directly, but he’d sought to help all the same. And he’d known, without asking, what was bothering her. He _knew_ her. From what she had experienced and witnessed, he loved her as much as she did him, and yet, she was still afraid of losing him, and still didn’t know what to do when they met with her former clan. She thumbed at her book again, suddenly unable to look him in the eye.

Malcolm ran his fingers along the outside of his still-unopened book. “Would this be easier or harder, do you think, if Velanna was with us?”

Líadan closed her eyes at Velanna’s harsh voice from one of their last arguments echoing in her mind. _“You aren’t an elven woman. You love a shemlen man, thinblood. You are the exile.”_

“Okay, apparently it would be harder,” Malcolm said, his ungloved hand grasping hers. “Forget I asked. It was a stupid question.”

“No, it wasn’t. I was just remembering.” She kept her eyes closed, but squeezed his hand.

“Whatever you’re remembering, it can’t be pleasant.” 

“No, not really. It was that argument Velanna and I had.”

There was a pause, and she could almost feel him resisting the urge to chuckle as he tried to think of a proper response. “You’ll have to be a little more specific than that. You and Velanna had, not to put a number on it or anything, a lot of arguments.”

“When you thought we were going to kill each other.”

“Nope, doesn’t much narrow it down.”

She sighed. “The one after you and Alistair told everyone about Fiona on our way back from Drake’s Fall.” She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Remember now?”

“Yes. Yes, I remember now. I pissed you off later because I asked what you were talking about.”

“I wasn’t mad at you for asking. I just... I didn’t want to discuss it, because it has to do with the Dalish thing.” She ran her free hand through her hair. “Velanna told me that I wasn’t really an _elvhen_ woman. That, because I loved you, I was a thinblood, and that _I_ was the true exile, not her.”

Malcolm tensed, and even though his grasp on her hand didn’t get stronger, she felt his muscles tighten in anger. “I’ll... do nothing, apparently, because she’s already dead.”

“It’s a nice sentiment, all the same, to think you’d defend me from her, even though she really wouldn’t have cared, since to her, you were, you know, a shem.” Líadan briefly bit her lip before continuing. “Anyway, I told her I wasn’t cast out like she was. Then she... she said...” She almost repeated the phrase as it’d been said to her, in Elvish, but found that saying it in Fereldan made the condemnation not ring quite as loudly. “She said I wouldn’t leave the shemlen man, and that I loved you over my people. That love itself was betrayal. That was exile.”

“So I kind of _am_ keeping you from your people.” He started to pull his hand from hers.

She grasped it harder so that he couldn’t move away. “No. That was Velanna. My people... the clan I grew up with will not be the same.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he stopped trying to withdraw his hand. “You don’t look so sure of that.”

“I hope they aren’t the same. I just don’t... I think I know them, but it’s been a while. And I’ve changed. I told Velanna that you’re my people, same as I’ve told you. I told her that I found a home, and that she was jealous because she was alone. That’s when she stalked off into the forest.”

He gave a low whistle. “No wonder she had that little snit. You burned her good. Helps that you were right. She _was_ jealous. And lonely, and couldn’t really bring herself to change much. She struggled and struggled for the ground she did make.” 

“It was a low blow, all the same.”

“It wasn’t like she was pulling punches with you. Fair’s fair.” He put his book down and drew up one of his legs. “Look, I told you before, I don’t want to come between you and your people. As much as you might say that the Mahariel aren’t your clan anymore, it’s obvious part of you is still attached to them. It isn’t surprising. It’s where you grew up. They’re the ones who raised you. Even if you’d left them to join another Dalish clan because you were marrying—or whatever you Dalish call it—a man from another clan doesn’t mean you’d ever entirely stop associating yourself with them. No matter what, they’ll always be a part of you.” He paused and his eyes squinted slightly as if he’d gotten an idea. “Hold on.” Then he was up and stepping out of the tent, but back in almost as soon as he’d left, now toting his shield. When she gave him a questioning look, he said, “Visual aid.” He took the same seat next to her as before, and held his shield in front of them both, the outside facing inward, so they could see the heraldry. “Heraldry’s kind of interesting in what it represents, especially when you’re granted arms or inherit arms, or are combining arms. This coat of arms is marshaled, that means it’s combined stuff. Most people notice the griffon of the Grey Wardens in one quarter, and the mabari of the Theirins in two other quarters.” He pointed to each, and then pointed to a different symbol on the bottom left. “This is the Cousland herald. Most of my life, as you know, I thought I was a Cousland, not a Theirin. The Couslands raised me as theirs, and Highever will always feel like home to me. This reflects that part of my heritage and my history. Even though my arms bear the Theirin symbols, and one of the Grey Wardens, my connection to the Couslands and Highever is represented, too, because that will never go away.” He set the shield aside. “I know it isn’t the same. I wasn’t forced to leave my clan and live with people who weren’t my own. Maybe that was a shitty comparison.”

“It makes sense,” she said, before he really started babbling an apology. “Just because I’m no longer able to be with them in the sense that I was before doesn’t mean that I have to, or even _can_ , pretend like the connection isn’t still there.”

He blinked. “Oh, so it wasn’t an insult. Good. I got about halfway through trying to explain it, and realized it really could’ve been construed as kind of an insult by simplifying what you’re going through.”

“I know that isn’t how you meant it. I’m not—”

“Velanna.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I know.”

She reached out and brushed her fingers along the rough late-night stubble of his cheek, something she had never really known about until she’d been thrown into the company of human men. Then she traced the round outline of the tip of his ear, biting her lip when she realized that it didn’t feel foreign or different to her any longer. 

He stilled her hand’s movement by gently grasping her wrist, holding it there. “I’m sorry that I’m not an elf. That my ears aren’t pointy, or—”

Her other hand shot out and she put a finger on his lips to make him stop. “No! Don’t say that. Don’t. If I insist that I’m not sorry about who I am, I’m not letting you apologize who you are, either. Or who or what you aren’t. There’s no need for anyone to deny their heritage or wish that they were something else.” She let her hand drop, but he caught it and held it, bringing her other hand down so that he held them both.

“Even if it would make it easier, were it true?”

“Were it true, then neither of us would be who we are, and who’s to say if we ever would’ve met? Different doesn’t necessarily mean easier or happier. ”

His head dropped and he turned her hands in his. “I just don’t... I hate seeing you this torn up. If I know I’m the cause, I want to be able to fix it, and I can’t.”

“Circumstance is the cause, not you.”

He lifted his head to look at her. “But I’m part of that circumstance. If I were an elf, even a city elf, it wouldn’t be like this. You wouldn’t be so conflicted about how to interact with me while we’re visiting your clan, or what to say to them about me. You’d be looking _forward_ to seeing them, instead of dreading it.”

She wasn’t sure if what Malcolm said was even true, that if it weren’t for him, she’d look forward to seeing her people again. It was hard to tell, since Marethari had agreed to send her away with the Wardens, and as a consequence, had lived apart from them for so long. It was harder to think about than even the current subject, so she shifted it back to him. “I could say the same for you. If I were human, you wouldn’t have had most of the trouble with Eamon. You wouldn’t have to deal with the pressures of the people at court, with all the invitations to meet lords’ daughters or cousins or whatever. You could’ve had what Alistair had, but because I’m an elf, that can’t happen.” 

His hands went a little slack around hers, and he looked away. “I suppose that’s... I guess you’re right, of course. That would be, you know, silly. Not really much more to say.” He moved toward the entrance of the tent, grabbing his shield on the way. “I need to go take watch.” Then he was gone.

Líadan flopped onto the bedroll and stared at the closed tent flap, wondering what had just gone wrong. Eventually, she fell into a fitful sleep.

_Marethari’s eyes, green like the leaves of the forest, regarded her sadly. “It breaks my heart to send you away, as it would to watch you die slowly from this sickness. This is your salvation.”_

_Líadan stared at her, needing to make the keeper understand that she wouldn’t just leave her clan. “This is all I’ve ever known. This is my_ home _.”_

_The keeper gently took Líadan’s hand in her own. “I cannot express my sadness at sending one of our daughters off into such danger, away from the clan that loves her. But if this is what the Creators intended for you, da’len, meet your destiny with your head held high. No matter where you go, you are Dalish. Never forget that.”_

_Looks were exchanged between Marethari and the two Grey Wardens. She wasn’t going to be allowed the choice. Marethari wasn’t going to fight for her, wasn’t going to let her stay if she chose to keep her loyalties with her clan. She would be sent away, like an exile. “Please,” Líadan said, appalled at how weak her voice sounded, barely a whisper. “Do not cast me away.” They were all she had left._

_Marethari looked at the ground, and then back to Líadan, and her eyes glittered with a thin sheen of unshed tears. “I am sorry, da’len.”_

_They were slowly spoken words of condemnation._

_The Senior Warden said his words of conscription, Marethari agreed, and Líadan’s future with the clan of her birth was shortened to an hour more at best. As she walked back to the aravel she’d once shared with her parents, she wondered what she’d done wrong. She wondered what she could have done to make Marethari proud of her, to feel she was worth enough to keep with the rest of the clan instead of cast off to these Wardens. As she packed, she wondered if it had been how her parents had died, how she hadn’t been able to save her mother, how she hadn’t manifested her gift of magic until it was too late, how she hadn’t been able to find Tamlen, how they hadn’t been able to retrieve that artifact for the clan. So many things piled up wrong and now they were casting her away. She hadn’t even had the chance to say she was sorry._

_Then Tamlen was there, and his condemnation was—_

_Tamlen? No, he never came back, he was gone, and then we found him and Malcolm killed him because Tamlen was going to kill_ me _, right after he said... he said..._

_He said that he always loved me._

_But he had always been like a brother, never one of... never... but it didn’t matter, because he was dead._

_And she was made a Grey Warden, never to return to her clan, the ones who were supposed to always love her, yet had cast her away._

_Marethari had made a visit as she’d closed up her pack, offering an apology that did nothing to change the fact that she was casting her away._

_“Don’t send me away. Don’t make me leave my home. Don’t—”_

“Líadan, wake up. Come on, it’s not real. Wake _up_.”

Her eyes opened to a dark tent, the distant crackling of a low fire, and her breath lodged in her throat. Her chest felt constricted and tight, burning like she’d run for an entire day. 

A tall body leaned over her, and a strong hand pressed against her shoulder, as if he’d been shaking her awake, which he probably had. When he saw that her eyes had opened, the strong hands dragged her up and pulled her to him in an almost crushing embrace. “I’m sorry,” he said in a voice near a whisper. “I didn’t mean to make you think that I’d send you way or cast you off or that I’d leave. I told you I wouldn’t leave you and I meant it. I mean it every time I say it. I wish you believed me. I wish I could act properly so that you _could_ believe me.”

“Did I say something in my sleep?” she asked, but because her face was pressed against his chest, it came out muffled. 

Malcolm’s grip lessened. “What?” 

She blinked up at him as she leaned away enough so that she could speak properly. “Did I say something in my sleep?” Bits and pieces of her dream were coming to her in flashes, none of them pleasant, and all of them suspiciously like painful memories of her last hours with the Mahariel. “I did, didn’t I?”

His hands smoothed her hair, and then drifted downward to rest on her shoulders. “You were asking not to be cast away.” He let go of her right shoulder to brush a thumb across her cheek. “You were even crying. Of all the nightmares you’ve had, you’ve _never_ done that.” And he looked more than a little scared about it having happened.

“It wasn’t you. I mean, you were _there_ , but it was the you I didn’t know. I was dreaming of my clan, of the day I was—”

“Cast away?”

She nodded, and then frowned. “They were my blood and my kin, and they sent me away. What stops you, or anyone else, from doing the same? If _they_ didn’t deem me fit for keeping, I don’t know how I can believe that you could. I’m not saying you’re lying. I’m just, I can’t... you can’t know for certain. If my own kin don’t think I’m worth it, then as much as I’d like to believe it, and as much as you believe it right _now_ , I don’t see how you wouldn’t end up doing the same as them.”

The fingers that had been curling at the back of her neck stilled, and he stared at her like he was trying to decide something. Most likely, she figured, if she was actually fully awake and not babbling incoherently in a strange, half-awake status. Then he brought up his other hand, cupping her cheeks with both of them, his thumbs caressing like when he’d first chanced to kiss her on the ship from Amaranthine. He opened his mouth, and then shut it. She could tell he was fighting the urge to say something, and was frustrating himself at not saying whatever it was. He set his jaw and looked away for a moment before turning back again. As he turned, she thought the faint light flickering against the fabric of the tent illuminated unshed tears in his eyes. She decided it had to be a trick of light or her own eyes deceiving her. 

“What can I do to make you believe me?” he asked. “I can’t think of what to do to prove it to you. To make you believe, that no matter what happened with your clan, or what _happens_ with your clan, that I won’t leave you, and I won’t make you leave me.”

“I don’t know.” Then she tried to make light of the situation, joke around like Malcolm did. “For the Dalish, usually the man in question goes on a hunt, and then presents a fine pelt to the woman’s parents. Of course, if he’s a crafter, he makes an item of his choosing, usually something useful like a bow or spear, and then gives that to the woman’s parents. I don’t know how it works if he’s a keeper or keeper’s apprentice, but I suppose that doesn’t matter. I’m really failing at this lighthearted thing, and what I just said can’t happen anyway. Human. Dalish. Not possible.”

He nodded, but didn’t meet her eyes. “Right. Yes.” Then he looked up, considering her before leaning over to place a soft kiss on her lips. He rested his forehead against hers. “I love you. I just wish that was enough.”

She blinked at the stinging in her eyes. “So do I.”

The next day, the small group of Grey Wardens arrived at the base of Sundermount at almost exactly midday. Líadan had expected the approach to her clan’s camp to feel familiar, even though this was a completely different geographic location. She shivered as she walked, yet she wasn’t cold. It _felt_ different, too, almost like—

“The Veil is thin here,” said Anders, pulling to a stop and casting a wary look up the looming mountain. 

Líadan nodded. “I feel it, too.”

Malcolm frowned. “Kind of dangerous, for mages to be hanging around places where the Veil is thin. Demons get all excited and try to make a run for it more often.”

“And I thought I was whimsical at times.” Anders gave Malcolm an odd look. “I’ve honestly never quite heard possession described that way. After what—”

Malcolm held up a hand to keep Anders from mentioning his botched Harrowing. “It’s either laugh or cry. I prefer laugh. Less dehydrating.”

“A fair point,” said Sten.

“Oh, Sten, keep saying things like that and I might start to believe you actually like me.”

“I tolerate you.”

“Tolerate, like, same difference.” When it became apparent that Sten wasn’t going to continue the verbal sparring, Malcolm turned to Líadan. “Wouldn’t Keeper Marethari and her First be in danger here? Or do Dalish keepers not—wait, yes they do. I’ve seen it. What happens when a keeper becomes possessed while they’re still with a clan?”

“A clan has to hunt and kill its own keeper. It’s been known to happen, though not very often.” Líadan fought down gorge rising in her throat at the idea of that happening to Marethari or Merrill, of any of them having to hunt and kill their own after they became an abomination. She turned and looked over where they’d been told the camp was. “Keeper Marethari must have a good reason for staying. Maybe she’s found safe places for the camp, where the Veil isn’t so thin.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Anders.

Sten growled something about _bas saarebas_ , but said nothing else intelligible.

When Líadan returned her attention to her fellow Wardens, she found Malcolm watching her intensely. They’d settled on keeping hands-off in public for the duration of their stay here, mostly on the basis of needing the clan’s full cooperation in terms of helping gather information on the eluvian and in finding Morrigan. That had to be the precedent, and if their relationship could cause rifts putting that search in jeopardy, then they’d have to keep it from sight so as not to do so. Líadan felt it was lame way of dealing with it, and Malcolm agreed, but neither of them had come up with an alternative solution. Though they weren’t hugely into public displays of affection, suddenly it felt strange and limiting not to be able to do so. As if, now that she knew they _couldn’t_ , she wanted to. It made no sense and _definitely_ made the day even more trying, not that it hadn’t already been daunting enough.

“Ready?” Malcolm asked.

She scowled. “No.” But she urged the horse forward anyway.

They had only ridden a quarter-mile farther when they were met by the nocked and drawn bows of Dalish hunters. 

“Halt,” said the one in the lead. “You are entering Dalish—Líadan?”

She resisted staring in shock at the sight of him. While she’d known that she’d most likely be seeing former clanmates today, nothing had really prepared her for the actual experience of seeing them. “ _Andaran atish’an,_ Fenarel. You can have your hunters lower their bows. It’s me, and these are my fellow Grey Wardens.” Her voice had come out sounding far more confident than she truly felt. She’d chosen the more formal greeting that immediately advocated peace since the hunters had drawn arrows on them. “We came here to see Keeper Marethari.”

“I had not expected to see you again!” said Fenarel, managing to sound both excited and wary at the same time, and waved off his hunters. Then his gaze moved from Líadan and over to Malcolm, where his eyes narrowed. “Nor had I expected to see you again.” Líadan, and probably the others, heard the barely bit back _shem_ at the end of his sentence.

Malcolm made as if he were struggling to recall having seen Fenarel. “Oh! I remember you now. You’re the Dalish hunter who wanted to kill me.”

“Then he must have known you well,” said Sten.

Malcolm shot a grin at the qunari. “Actually, we’d just met. He and a few of his fellow hunters had found me and my brother and Zevran in the Brecilian Forest.”

Sten gave Fenarel a respectful nod. “Then he must have been very astute to want you dead immediately.”

“Yes,” said Malcolm, “you and he will get along _famously_ , I think.” He dismounted, and the rest of the Wardens did the same as they made ready to follow the Dalish hunters back to their encampment.

The first thing Líadan noticed when they entered the campsite was that there were no halla. As she looked around for them, wondering if they were being strangely silent instead of filling the camp with their bleating, she noticed that she couldn’t see any of the statues of the elven gods. No Falon’Din, Dirthamen, Sylaise, not even a Fen Harel facing away from the camp to keep the trickster god away. Had the statues been lost? Broken during travel? And where—

“Where are the halla?” Malcolm asked her in a quiet tone of voice. 

“I don’t know.” Dread settled into her body that something awful had happened to her clan. “It isn’t like I’ve been here.” It also made her more short-tempered than usual.

“No, I didn’t—that wasn’t what I meant. I mean, humans herd things like cows and sheep and horses and, sometimes, we’ll move them into different fields, farther away from where we normally corral them. I was wondering if Dalish might do the same, because every Dalish camp I’ve been in, there’s been halla.”

“Dalish don’t do that, no.”

“Okay, well, hopes for happy halla, kittens, and rainbows are gone. It’s just moved to unsettling now.”

“Yes, it has.” Líadan swept her eyes over the faces watching them as they walked through the camp, faces that were all at once familiar and yet not. As Fenarel brought them toward the middle of the camp, Líadan’s apprehension from the days before returned with a vengeance, stealing away her ability to breathe properly, making her muscles tense, and almost throwing off her gait. 

Malcolm noticed, giving her what he must’ve thought an encouraging half-smile. She had to mentally applaud his effort, but it was apparent he was dealing with his own sort of trepidation.

The large common fire burned in the center of the camp as it always had. Someone must have run ahead to notify the keeper, because Marethari was already standing next to it and waiting expectantly. Either that, or she’d known, like she always did in that eerie keeper way of hers. Líadan made reluctant eye contact with the older woman, and Marethari gave her a smile that warmed her eyes. “Líadan, you have returned home.” Then they had gotten closer, and Marethari’s arms were open and around her and hugging her like she’d done when she was a little girl. And like she’d done when she was small, she clung to the keeper with a surprising fierceness she hadn’t thought still within her. “You have made us proud, _da’len_ ,” Marethari said quietly. “Never fear that you have not.”

Líadan had to force away the biting press of sudden tears.


	75. Chapter 75

**Chapter 75**

“Little knowledge remains of the great war the Tevinter Imperium waged upon the elves of Arlathan. Many human scholars believe that Arlathan was the only elven settlement of note, and that if elves existed elsewhere on the continent, their forces were at best negligible. My conversations with the Dalish, however, indicate that there was a time when the elves had many cities, and it’s possible that the elven civilization declined long before the Imperium entered the height of its power.

An example of such a place is Sundermount in the Vimmark Mountains near Kirkwall. According to Dalish legend, this was a burial site for elders and the location of a great battle between Imperium and elven forces—nowhere near Arlathan (if one believes the city was near the forest of the same name in northeastern Thedas).

The arcane warriors that remained at the mountain to defend their slumbering elders were known as the _Enasalin’abelas_ , or ‘sorrowful victory.’ These elves knew they were going to die, but were bound by duty to protect their charges. ”

—from _An Investigation into Arlathan_ , by Alstead the Sage, 9:18 Dragon

**Malcolm**

After seeing Líadan moved to _tears_ at the welcome she’d gotten from her former Keeper, Malcolm realized that Líadan truly must’ve expected something exceptionally horrible to happen upon her return to the clan.

Either that, or she’d desperately needed a motherly hug. Remembering just how long it’d been since he’d gotten one himself, and how comforting they tended to be, even when you wanted to be a man and totally not admit it, he figured that could be a possibility as well. He made an effort to look everywhere but toward the two women next to the large campfire. Sten had gone with two of the Dalish elves to deal with the horses, but the rest of the Wardens had remained near the fire. Sigrun gaped at pretty much everything while Oghren chuckled at her, and Anders was staring up at the rather imposing visage of Sundermount. Revas, having determined that her master was not in any danger, joined Gunnar in entertaining a pack of curious elven children, most of whom were no taller than Gunnar’s head. Watching as Gunnar rolled in the grass in front of the children and Revas ran circles around them, Malcolm wondered if their time here at the Dalish camp would remind Líadan of what she’d lost in becoming a Warden. Then he realized he didn’t need to wonder, since he already knew. How she’d been acting the past few days, and especially after last night, had been clear indication that she was plagued by what she’d lost and felt she couldn’t return to. 

And there wasn’t a sodding thing he could do to fix it, being, he knew, part of the problem. He’d been considering what Oghren had told him, even wondering if perhaps he should just find out what the Dalish did and trying out that route if it wouldn’t be insulting, but after what she’d said the night before, he didn’t dare. She obviously didn’t think it an option, and possibly even assumed their being together couldn’t stay permanent. Maybe it was an expression of some subconscious thought she hadn’t yet discovered, that she did want to be free to find an elven man, perhaps marry and have a child if it were possible for a Grey Warden. 

He almost believed it. He’d even fled from the tent at how strong the belief was and how his fledging thoughts of marriage or bonding were rejected before they were even spoken out loud. Thank the Maker he hadn’t mentioned it, even in passing. But when her pleas from her nightmare had woken him from a dead sleep, and how panicked she’d looked at the idea of him leaving, the belief she wanted to be away from him faltered. She was, it seemed, just as stunningly confused as he was and trying to find a solid answer in a world where there wasn’t one to be found. Hopefully her interaction with Marethari—even though it looked like it’d produced tears—helped repair some of what was broken within her, the broken parts he couldn’t fix even though he wished he could. He also, somewhat selfishly, hoped that it wouldn’t make Líadan want to stay here permanently with the Mahariel. If she decided that, he—he stopped. It wasn’t something he wanted to contemplate. 

Líadan had stepped away from Marethari, and the keeper was now studying Malcolm. “I see that you have returned,” she said in her unique cadence. “Are your Grey Wardens looking to recruit?”

He found himself unconsciously shifting his weight under her scrutiny, wondering if she somehow _knew_ about him and Líadan and was preparing to flay him for it. “While the Grey Wardens of Ferelden will need recruits for some time to come, we aren’t looking to recruit from here. We’ve... we’ve taken enough from your people.” It wasn’t just that they’d forcibly had to take Líadan from the only life she’d known and loved, the Mahariel had also been instrumental in organizing the Dalish armies during the Blight. They had done enough and, for now, there was no need to ask more of them. 

Marethari gave him a slight nod, and then turned to Líadan. “What is it that has brought you here, then?”

Líadan seemed to weight her words for a moment. “Many things, Keeper. We’ve come across information about the mirror that Tamlen and I found in the ruins. You were right. I never paid enough attention in lessons, because I don’t know enough to explain what we’ve found. We—you know what, Merrill should probably hear all of this, too, so I don’t have to say it twice.” She glanced around the area, puzzlement clear in her expression. “Where is she? Usually she’s quick about greeting guests.”

“Merrill has chosen her own path,” Marethari said, the words coming out slowly, even for her, “and is no longer with the clan.”

“Chosen her...” Líadan trailed off and stared at her former mentor. “You mean she—was she exiled? Merrill? Exiled?”

Marethari closed her eyes and bowed her head in an elongated nod. “She and I argued after she chose to learn blood magic. In the end, she chose to continue on that path, and left the clan.” She paused and lifted her head. “You must be weary from the road. There is space at the northern end of the camp where your companions may set up your camp for the duration of your stay here. Once you have settled in, _da’len_ , we may sit down and speak of what you have discovered about the eluvian.”

Malcolm raised his eyebrow a little at what was unmistakably a dismissal. Marethari had already turned away and was walking toward one of the many aravels, and Líadan stared after her for a second. Then she faced him and shrugged. “That was odd. I guess we need to go set up camp. Come on.” She motioned them forward and set off. There was a clearing one of the other Dalish elves pointed out just north of the last aravels of the camp where the Wardens set up their tents and dug a firepit. It would be somewhat secluded from the Dalish, and Malcolm wasn’t sure if it was more for their privacy or for the elves’ own need for isolation. 

Líadan stared at the spare tent at her feet as Malcolm set up the one they’d shared during their travels thus far. He’d meant it when he said he’d follow her lead on what to do while with the Dalish, and this was one of those times. He wanted her to continue sharing with him, but he wouldn’t presume that she would. Not after how she’d reacted to Marethari’s first greeting. Except he’d definitely noticed she seemed rather on the cranky side after hearing about Merrill. He found it kind of odd, and a little on the preposterous side, that the First he’d met during the Blight had become a blood mage. She didn’t seem the type, but then again, neither had Jowan. 

“Sod it,” said Líadan. “I’m not sleeping in another tent. It’s bad enough as it is. If they spy, and then have the audacity to say something to me, I’ll just have to beat in their heads.”

Malcolm chuckled softly, relieved to hear the outcome of her decision. “I’ll cheer you on, especially if you start with Fenarel.”

She paused as she stacked the tent with their other extra supplies. “What’s wrong with Fenarel?”

“He hates me? I thought that was reason enough. For some reason, he’s wanted to kill me ever since the first moment he saw me.”

She shrugged. “That’s just Fenarel. He doesn’t want to kill you. He just wants to make sure the clan is safe. It’s part of his job as a hunter. Don’t worry about him. And if he does try to kill you, I’ll... kill him back. Or something.”

“Or something. That’s reassuring.”

“Sorry, not at my best at the moment.” Líadan sat in the soft grass near a half-fallen, ancient stone wall. “I just can’t believe Marethari exiled Merrill. I mean, Merrill wasn’t anything like Velanna.”

He sat next to her, careful not to touch her, afraid that if he fell into the habit here, in relative seclusion, that he might slip up while interacting with the clan. “Velanna wasn’t a blood mage. She was kind of a bitch at times, but I think I’d recall her being a blood mage, so no, not alike.”

“That isn’t what I meant.” She plucked a blade of grass from the ground and started to twist it. “I’m not sure if you know this, but practicing blood magic isn’t something Dalish clans normally exile for. It isn’t exactly smiled upon, but it’s a tool like any other, so long as it isn’t someone else’s blood you’re using in place of your own. There’s something else Marethari isn’t telling us.”

“I suspect there’s several somethings Marethari isn’t telling us. Like, where all the halla are or what they’re doing here at Sundermount. You said your clan spent most of their time in the Brecilian Forest in Ferelden, and tended to winter in the Planasene Forest. This is neither of those places. And then there’s the issue of a thin Veil to consider.”

Líadan frowned and savagely ripped the blade of grass in half. “The Veil is safe enough, here in and just around the Dalish encampment. Farther up the mountain, though, I’m not so sure it is. Legends speak of dangerous creatures lurking about up there. Beings from the Beyond, relics left from the _Elvhenan_ war with Tevinter who haven’t yet figured out that the battle is long over, and long lost.” She squinted up at the dark shape of the mountain, its peak shrouded with clouds. “They say the final battle was fought along the slopes of this mountain, and that’s why the Veil is so fragile here.”

Malcolm looked toward where Líadan was. “My people’s historical record matches up with yours for once on that. Both sides summoned horrific things into this realm, and those creatures still prowl the upper reaches of the mountain. Chantry legend also has it that Andraste stopped here on her way through the Free Marches. Said she journeyed up the slopes, stayed up there for three days, and wept ‘as if her heart had broken’ on her return. She went up alone, too, which is insanely dangerous given the mountain’s reputation. And...” He recalled something else, a tidbit from a book Wynne had read during the Blight—one of her _non_ -dirty books—that had made the daring claim that Andraste had not been supernatural so much as an incredibly powerful mage. And if a powerful mage had ventured up on the higher slopes of Sundermount, where Fade creatures roamed freely, they would stand a very large change of becoming possessed by a demon, willing or unwilling. He told this memory to Líadan, and then said, “If she went up there, I bet Andraste totally came back possessed by a demon.” Then he started laughing at the extremity of the blasphemy, feeling vaguely disappointed that Leliana and Wynne weren’t around to be categorically shocked and appalled at his comment. 

“That would certainly explain a lot of Andraste’s legendary abilities,” said Líadan. “I never understood half of what your Chantry was getting at, anyway, what with your Maker and Andraste. The woman was bonded—married, as humans say—to a man already, and had several children with him. Then the Maker, who was apparently a god, decided to make Andraste his wife? He stole another man’s wife. How is that something you’d worship someone for?”

Malcolm frowned. “I hadn’t really thought about that.”

“And _then_ , when the cuckolded husband had the audacity to get angry that the Maker had stolen his wife, the Maker got mad at _him_ and apparently everyone else, and turned His back again.” She shook her head. “At least the elven gods are locked up and not voluntarily ignoring their people. Though it never spoke well for them that they were so easily tricked by Fen’Harel.”

“The Maker is apparently a huge jerk.” Malcolm laughed at the revelation, now _really_ wishing Wynne and Leliana were around. “I never made the connection.”

She got to her feet. “Enough theology. We should get back to Marethari. She isn’t telling us the entire truth and I’d really like to get it out of her. I mean, she referred to the mirror as the eluvian. How would she even _know_ that? I didn’t know. Merrill didn’t know. She claimed to not know when I talked to her about it after I woke up. And exiling Merrill? It isn’t like she’s got another First kicking about, either. Makes no sense to exile her apprentice over _blood magic_.” Her muttering continued as they walked back into the main part of the encampment, leaving the others to do whatever they wanted or needed as the two of them met with Marethari. “I can see her learning blood magic, sure, but the only reason an elf would be exiled over it would be for exploiting others in the course of using it. That isn’t something I see Merrill doing. Not at all.”

“I wonder how she learned, if Marethari isn’t a blood mage, and you don’t exactly have books about it lying around. I think the revelation at Cadash thaig would’ve hit you a lot less hard if that were true.”

“No, you’re right. No books. Spirit, most likely, since there are plenty of them roaming about the mountain. It isn’t so much the how as it is the why. Merrill never expressed interest in it aside from a vague academic curiosity about why it’d be useful. But her magic was powerful enough that there wasn’t anything that she needed to do that she’d require blood magic to power it.”

“What about you?”

She halted and looked up at him. “What about me?”

“Did you ever learn? Would you?”

“What for? I don’t do a lot with my magic, anyway. At most, I’m just a carrier who will pass it along to—well, not anymore. Would’ve been.” She sighed. “Let’s just go talk to the keeper.”

Fantastic. He’d managed to make her mood even bleaker.

Marethari led them to a different, smaller fire just outside what Malcolm assumed to be the keeper’s personal aravel. After they all sat down, the two Wardens explained Morrigan and what had happened at the very end of the Blight, and then the connections with the eluvian. Líadan explained the theories she’d worked out so far and why she’d needed both Marethari and Merrill’s input on where to go for more information, and consequentially, where they could find Morrigan. “I am not sure that is a journey you should undertake,” Marethari said when the younger woman had finished.

Malcolm made note that the idea that they shouldn’t go searching for Morrigan themselves seemed to be a common theme shared among every sentient person older than them.

Líadan frowned slightly. “Regardless of what you think about the safety of the journey, we’re already on it, and we need to finish it. Morrigan needs our help, we believe.”

“And what if she does not?”

“We can’t know that until we speak with her.” Líadan’s tone was becoming flat, an indication that she was becoming impatient and testy, and that shouting would soon follow.

Malcolm decided it would be best if he continued to sit quietly and wait until directly spoken to. While it wasn’t something he did often, it did come in handy at preserving his life at times like these.

“If the daughter of _Asha’belannar_ truly needed your help, do you not think she would seek you out for it?” Marethari asked, still addressing Líadan. “Continuing to pursue the history and workings of the eluvian will only lead to more trouble. We have already lost Tamlen. We nearly lost you. Please, do not continue with this folly and secure the way for more loss.”

“It isn’t folly, and Morrigan sucks at asking for help,” said Líadan. “We’re already in danger whether we like it or not. There’s a yellow-eyed crow who hunts us in the Beyond. Sometimes, we catch glimpses of it in the daytime, as well.”

On hearing that, Malcolm glanced reflexively around, scanning the trees for any possible crows, black or yellow-eyed. He didn’t really relish the idea of being seen freaking out about a simple crow in the presence of a large number of decidedly judgmental Dalish elves. His attention returned to the two women nearest him when he heard Marethari’s next question.

“Have you considered that the crow may be only watching you, and not hunting?”

Líadan sighed. “Yes. If the crow is truly _Asha’belannar_ , then she has the ability to strike whenever she wants. She has not, so it stands to reason that we are not her true prey, and that Morrigan and her children very much are. Morrigan can’t fight her mother alone. She couldn’t during the Blight, and even though she has the Old God child now, I don’t think it’s grown enough to be of any help.”

Marethari bowed her head. “I wish I could be of help to you, _da’len_.”

The comment brought Líadan to her feet. “Then why—fine. I have an unrelated question, then. Why are you here? Why is the clan here? This place is dangerous, even for short periods of time. All Dalish know it, and yet the Mahariel have set up camp here at the base of Sundermount. Why?”

The keeper remained calmly sitting, her hands never moving from where they were folded in her lap. “The clan has business here and will leave when it is time for us to do so. For now, we are exploring the deeper reaches of the mountain for artifacts. There are indications of troves that have gone long forgotten and undiscovered. It is our duty to recover and preserve what we can while we are here, however long that might be.”

“What business have you to conduct here? It makes no sense. This place isn’t just dangerous because of Sundermount, there’s also Kirkwall to consider. The human templars will endure your presence for only so long. What if they come for you?” Líadan’s tone took on a more strained note at mentioning the threat of the templars. “What if they take you by force? What will the clan do without you and without a First? They would be cast adrift.”

Marethari studied the younger woman for a long moment before turning to Malcolm. “I am sorry, but I cannot speak of these things with an outsider here.” She made a small motion with one of her hands. “If you would excuse us?”

Malcolm blinked at the sudden dismissal, the second from this woman in a very short amount of time, and then gave Líadan a slight shrug before walking away. He could see now how trying to claim elven blood here wouldn’t help in the least. They would even treat other elves, if city-born, about the same way. While he didn’t know Marethari nearly as well as Líadan, he completely believed the keeper was withholding information. But it wasn’t like he could outright accuse her of that fact, not without the risk of getting them run out of the camp. Plus, if there were artifacts in the mountain, and if they reached back to the time in elven history when they used the eluvians, he and Líadan needed to get a good look at them, even if Marethari refused to help.

He wandered the camp as he mulled over his thoughts, stopping to watch the clan’s bowyer, amazed at the sureness of the man’s hands as he worked. Master Ilen had helped a lot during the Blight, providing many fine bows to the archers of all the armies, not just the Dalish. It had brought the man wide respect through all races involved with the war effort, and he’d always been one of the easiest of the Dalish elves to deal with, along with being one of the kindest.

Ilen set the bow aside and looked over at Malcolm. “It’s good to see you again, Warden.”

“And you, too, Master Ilen. Business treating you well?”

Ilen nodded. “We get enough traders who are going between the mountains and Kirkwall to keep us with what materials we need. And what about you? Have you need of a bow?”

Malcolm laughed. “No, not me. I’m rubbish with them. There’s a Warden back in Ferelden who’s an amazing shot. It’s like he’s one with the bow. He’s the only one of us who—wait, no. I know Líadan might be just as good, but I’ve never seen her shoot a single arrow. She refuses, sticking to blades or her magic, even when...” He sighed, remembering the last argument about her not using a bow when she was freshly recovering from wounds and shouldn’t have joined in the melee. 

“Even when she should know better?”

“Pretty much. I said that and promptly got yelled at, and there was a lot of cursing involved. At least, I think it was cursing. It was in Elvish.”

Ilen chuckled to himself. “She always does her best cursing in Elvish. Always has, ever since she learned those particular words after overhearing her father.” Then the older man’s face became more serious as he regarded Malcolm. “Do you know why she won’t use a bow?”

“Yes. The templars and everything that happened with her parents and how she broke her mother’s bow out of anger. Which, knowing her, didn’t surprise me in the least to hear and, to be honest, kind of scared me a little. Okay, more than a little.” Ilen’s chuckles grew louder, and Malcolm was happy enough to hear that they weren’t derisive. “I’d thought about getting her a new bow, but then realized I wasn’t even sure what she liked. I mean, back when she liked bows, before she decided she preferred them split into pieces. I tried asking our resident archer, but he isn’t much of a talker. I got a glare, a grunt, and something muttered about how he remembered that I couldn’t hit the widest and tallest wall of Highever Castle when we were children. I didn’t want to tell him that the bow was for Líadan because, well, she’d kill me for telling him, so he wouldn’t help. Said it would be an offense to the bow in question and refused to subject a fine bow to a fate such as that.” He had forgotten how _mean_ Nathaniel could be with his sharp words.

“I remember the bow she broke.” Ilen’s words were tinged with amusement and the warmth of a fond memory. “I made it myself on the request of Nuada, Líadan’s father, to be given as a bonding gift to Gwenael, who would eventually become Líadan’s mother. As I recall, he’d killed a fine brown bear and presented the pelt to Gwenael’s parents, and Gwenael told Nuada that she could have obtained a better pelt than that, if her bow had not broken. So he challenged her and said he would provide the finest bow he could find so that she could show him up, if she dared. Of course, she took the challenge. And won, if I remember correctly. They bonded soon after.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “That sounds _remarkably_ like someone else I know.”

“She was, and is, much like her mother. That only served to make Nuada even more fond of his _da’mi_ , even as stubborn as she was.”

“ _Da’mi_?” He hoped he didn’t mangle the pronunciation too badly. Of course one of the first Elvish words he heard in the Dalish camp that wasn’t a greeting, he wouldn’t know. It wasn’t like he hadn’t worked hard at learning the language, and was still trying his best. It just wouldn’t stick in his mind like it had when he was a child.

“It means ‘little blade.’ It was Nuada’s endearment for his daughter.” Ilen sighed. “He would have been very proud of her. Living through her experience with that mirror, becoming a Grey Warden, helping to kill an archdemon. She’s done great things.”

 _And yet she still doesn’t believe it._ “She has. I still want to get her a bow, maybe, see if she’ll use one, but I’m starting to think that she’ll only use a bow again when she believes in herself. Forgives herself, really, for what happened with the templars. Even though there’s nothing to _forgive_ because it wasn’t her fault. But, as we all know, guilt really isn’t much for following logic.”

“Quite true.” Ilen stroked his chin. “I have an idea, and I think I still know the design of Gwenael’s bow. Come back to me in a few days and I’ll have something for you to give her. Even if she doesn’t fully forgive herself, perhaps we can urge that feeling along, even just a little.”

“Thank you. I hadn’t expected—”

Ilen smiled. “Think nothing of it. She is still a Mahariel, even if she is a Grey Warden.”

Malcolm left the older man to his work, hoping whatever scheme he was cooking up with Master Ilen wasn’t going to backfire on either of them. Realizing it’d been some time since he’d seen his mabari, he went searching for Gunnar. While he didn’t worry too much, if at all, about Gunnar’s behavior, Revas still had rough patches. Following the sound of yips, barks, and the giggling of children, he found the mabari still happily entertaining what seemed to be every small child belonging to the Mahariel clan. Revas seemed to have stolen someone’s glove, while Gunnar had sacked out on the ground and allowed what looked to be at least four toddlers to climb onto his body. Noticing his master approach, Gunnar lifted his head and gave him a lolling doggy grin. Malcolm certainly had no intentions of denying any of them that sort of innocent happiness. Maker knew it was hard enough to find. Revas barked when she saw him, ran over, and dropped the glove at his feet. 

He dropped to a knee and picked up the glove, giving the dog a quizzical look. “What am I going to do with this? It’s far too small for my hand. I think it might fit on one of my fingers, but that’s it. Líadan should be teaching you better manners.” He pretended to try the glove on for size, careful to only fit it over an index finger lest he stretch out the leather so far that it wouldn’t fit the owner’s quite-small hand. A child shyly came forth to claim her glove, mumbling a ‘thank-you’ and rushing off almost immediately. Revas gave chase, making the child squeal with laughter. 

He stood and glanced over at Gunnar again, the dog noticing right away that his master intended to leave. The mabari gave him a plaintive stare, and Malcolm sighed. “Stay and play, then. Just be careful. They’re _little_.” Admittedly, they were also adorable, especially the small girl, who couldn’t have been more than four, who’d crossed her arms and given him a dirty look on hearing him refer to them as ‘little.’

Then the brave, or defiant, as he tended to get those two mixed up, soul stomped over to him and continued her glare before saying, “I’m not little.” Her face and body posture communicated that she had absolutely no fear of the tall, human warrior standing in front of her.

Malcolm idly wondered if this was what Líadan had been like as a child. Then he made sure to keep a straight face, lest he insult the child further. “Everyone is little to someone else.” He pointed over to Gunnar. “The mabari there, Gunnar, he probably weighs about three times as much as you do, even though you’re the same height when he’s standing on four legs. So you’re little to him. But you see how tall I am, right?”

The girl nodded, but she didn’t look terribly convinced. “Shemlen are tall, usually. Almost always taller than elves.”

“Yes. And I’m told I’m tall even for a human. But compared to a qunari, I’m pretty short. Or, if you put me up next to, say, a high dragon, then I look really, really tiny. I’m about as tall as a dragon’s knee, if that.”

Her eyes got wider and the hostility disappeared in favor of the possibility of getting stories about dragons.“Have you ever fought a dragon?”

“More than one. They’re scary. I wouldn’t recommend fighting them.”

On hearing the word ‘dragon’ from an adult, the children perked up and pressed in closer to him and the previously-vexed little girl. “Did you win the fight?” a little boy asked. 

Malcolm dropped back down to a knee so that he wasn’t talking down to them. He’d done the same with his nephew, Oren, before the Blight. “One of the dwarves who came with me, Oghren—he’s the fellow with the great big, red, braided beard—cut off the dragon’s tail, and that made her fly away.”

“Do they really breathe fire?” the little girl asked.

“Copious amounts of fire, in fact.”

She scrunched up her nose in thought. “What’s ‘copious’ mean?” 

“Um, it means lots. High dragons breathe a lot of fire.”

“Well, why didn’t you just say that?” The girl was, apparently, vexed once more.

He squinted at her. “You sound a _lot_ like Líadan.”

The girl practically puffed up with pride. “ _She_ killed a dragon. She even helped kill the archdemon! Did you know that? So I think it’s good if I sound like her. Maybe one day I can be a Grey Warden like her and kill dragons and darkspawn and save the world.”

Malcolm wanted to discourage the child, if only because he hated the idea of any of these kids having to take in the taint, but who was he to stomp all over a child’s dreams? “Maybe you can. You should ask her about it when you see her.” He suggested that because the idea of Líadan having to hold an entire conversation with what seemed to be a smaller version of herself seemed hilarious to him. He just had to hope the girl didn’t tell her that she’d gotten the idea from him, or he’d get an earful for it after. Even then, it would probably be worth it.

“I saw a dragon once,” said the little boy lying across Gunnar.

The girl whirled around and looked at him with big eyes. “We aren’t supposed to talk about that! And it was probably just our imagin... imag...”

“Imagination,” said one of the older children with the particular look of exasperation only children of her age seemed to possess when dealing with their inferiors.

“Where did you see a dragon?” Malcolm asked the boy, assuming it would be in a book or a carving on an ancient relic.

The little boy pointed up at Sundermount. “Up there. It flew away, though, and we haven’t seen it in months. We remember because we saw it right before another clan came to visit with _Asha_ —”

“I think that’s enough, _da’len_ ,” said an adult woman approaching the group. “It is almost time for supper. All of you should see to washing up.” Her interruption was welcomed by a chorus of grumbles and whines, but the children obeyed, scattering for various aravels. The woman gave Malcolm a cursory nod. “Warden.” Then she walked away without saying another word.

Revas and Gunnar looked quite put out, and Malcolm showed them where the Warden campsite was, all while wondering if the children had really seen a dragon, or if it’d just been a large predatory bird and their imaginations had gotten the best of them. And what had that little boy been saying before he was interrupted? He’d have to ask Líadan, but that meant she had to be out of her meeting with Marethari. 

Exploring the camp some more as he waited for Líadan to emerge from Marethari’s aravel, he discovered that the children and Master Ilen were the most welcoming of this clan, and the likelihood of speaking with outsiders dropped precipitously when amongst others. Malcolm was walking back to the camp proper when he heard Líadan lighting into someone he deemed very, very unlucky, judging from the tone of her voice. 

“ _Really_ , Cammen? You really still haven’t gotten a pelt? Has it occurred to you that perhaps you chose the wrong apprenticeship? That maybe you’re meant to be a craftsman or an artisan instead of a hunter?”

Malcolm couldn’t hear the quiet answer of this Cammen person, but he was easily able to hear Líadan’s exasperated reply. “Creators! You _would_ be even worse at the other trades. Well, instead of standing around, moping and whining, have you considered just going, oh, I don’t know, hunting?”

Cammen’s reply was stronger this time, loud enough where Malcolm could catch it as he stood at what he judged to be a safe enough distance. Just in case. “None of the full hunters will allow me to accompany them, and Keeper Marethari will not permit me to go alone.”

Líadan made a noise of frustration. “Fine. You may accompany us up on Sundermount tomorrow. I will see if Gheyna will accept the skin or pelt of any significant creature we encounter up there as proof of your ability as a hunter beyond that of an apprentice. I will find you when we’re leaving.” She spun and turned her back on the apprentice before he could reply. The dark scowl on her face made Malcolm raise an eyebrow. This young man had gotten under her skin far for effectively than he ever had, and he considered himself an expert. Hands on her hips, her eyes swept over the camp, presumably looking for this Gheyna person. Then her eyes set upon her quarry, and with a determined set to her mouth, marched straight over. Malcolm glanced to where Cammen stood, and saw a young man, possibly younger than himself, standing in front of a smaller cookfire, narrow shoulders drooping, and wide, frightened eyes focused on a retreating Líadan. 

“What was that about?” Malcolm asked, moving closer. It seemed safer to ask this man rather than Líadan, who was currently upbraiding the unsuspecting Gheyna—at least, he assumed the young woman was Gheyna—about accusing another person of being a child when they also had not yet received the _vallaslin_. 

Cammen was still staring over at Líadan with a great deal of fear. “Creators, any man who tries to bond with Líadan would need the courage of Elgar’nan himself.”

 _And yet she mocks me for being a coward because I’m afraid of spiders._ “You don’t say,” Malcolm said out loud. “So... what was that about?”

The other man cleared his throat and ran a quick hand through his short, silvery-blond hair. “She had asked me if Gheyna and I had bonded yet. I had talked to her about my feelings for Gheyna before she got sick and had to leave. She’d assumed we’d have bonded by now, and was... surprised that we had not.”

Malcolm glanced over to where Líadan was still ‘speaking’ with Gheyna. “I’m not sure surprised is the right word.” He returned to Cammen. “Why haven’t you? I thought you just had to give something you’ve hunted or crafted to the girl’s parents.” He’d been paying _far_ more attention than he should have when Líadan had, mostly in jest, explained Dalish bonding customs. Then she’d set it aside as silly, and he’d felt like a very disappointed idiot for considering the notion, even though he hadn’t mentioned any of those thoughts directly to her. There was also the fact of the matter that he was horrible at hunting, he couldn’t think of anything he could craft with his hands, and he wasn’t about to skin a darkspawn. Ever.

“I have not yet managed to secure a pelt either for them or to be made a full hunter instead of an apprentice. It would have to serve as both, were I to get one. I am not as fast with arrows as the other hunters are.”

“Could you use something else to hunt with? Spear, maybe?” Malcolm wasn’t sure if he liked this Cammen or not, yet he couldn’t help but root for him. If he and Líadan couldn’t bond or marry or anything acceptable to either culture, maybe this young man and Gheyna could. 

“I am even worse with a spear.”

“Well, damn.” He really wanted to ask if they were even allowed to bond without having _vallaslin_ , since the last time he’d checked, that’s what marked the true transition from child to adult in Dalish culture, but he was fairly certain it’d sound like an insult. 

Cammen sighed. “I should prepare for tomorrow. Somehow, I will make this work and I will bond with Gheyna. There must be a way.” Another sigh, and then he nodded at Malcolm. “Good night, Warden.”

As Cammen walked away, Malcolm crossed his arms and frowned, more at himself than anything else. He and Líadan, it seemed, could take a page from Cammen’s book and be determined to make things work, even though the odds were stacked against them. Then again, Cammen had the advantage of being part of the same people as the woman he loved. Not so much for Malcolm, even though he did have elven blood. If he had some way of determining if Líadan’s clan would reject her if they found out about the two of them, it would make things easier. He couldn’t blame her for how uncertain she was about how to act, not after seeing what’d happened to another Dalish exile whose clan had rejected her. And Malcolm didn’t want to be the cause of Líadan being truly cast out of her clan. Though she was a very strong woman, much of that strength, he saw, came from these people who were her family. To have them reject her would sap away the strength they’d instilled within her, and if he could keep that from happening, he would, even if it hurt.

It already did.


	76. Chapter 76

**Chapter 76**

“Vir Vhenan: the Way of the Heart

As the spirit keeps, so must you.

In loving, find compassion;

In purpose, find life.

That is my Way.”

—excerpt from _The Charge of Sylaise the Hearthkeeper_

**Líadan**

“I see that you have spoken with Cammen and Gheyna regarding their difficulties,” said Keeper Marethari, moving to stand next to Líadan.

“They shouldn’t be having any difficulties. And I didn’t mean to speak to them about it, it just came up.” She’d been surprised to find that neither Gheyna nor Cammen had received the _vallaslin_ , and that they had yet to bond. It had seemed like such a sure thing just before Líadan had been forced to leave the clan. It wasn’t like she still couldn’t see—like _everyone_ couldn’t see—the looks of longing they gave each other. They were, in Líadan’s opinion, being idiots. “Cammen will be coming with us to Sundermount tomorrow. If he kills a beast of any kind, even one from the Beyond, they will accept that as proof that Cammen is capable of being a full hunter and worthy of bonding.”

Marethari nodded. “Then they will be ready to take the _vallaslin_ , as well.” 

“I had thought they would’ve taken it sooner.”

“They had other issues to work through before they were ready. As you well know, it is something that can take some time and is different for each one of us. We all see our entrances into adulthood in different ways, and there are many different doors.”

Líadan gave a listless shrug. It seemed more that Cammen and Gheyna viewed childhood as being unable to properly fit a role within the clan, whether it be hunter or craftsman, and not the reception of _vallaslin_. Whatever. Cammen would get the kill tomorrow on the mountain, and that would be that. In comparison to her and Malcolm, Cammen and Gheyna had it easy, and part of her was, admittedly, jealous. Her eyes flicked over to where Malcolm sat on the opposite side of the fire, apparently engaged in a deep conversation with Maren’s little daughter Saraid. The girl had co-opted him as soon as the clan had gathered for the evening meal, peppering him with constant questions about dragons and whatever other fantastical creatures he might’ve faced in combat on Thedas. She showed absolutely no fear as she continued to chat with the human male, either staying glued to his side when he went to get food, or plopping herself next to him on the log he’d found to sit on. The other children found Oghren and Sigrun a little more entertaining, especially with Oghren’s colorful stories that Sigrun kept interrupting to keep him from swearing in front of the little ones. Sten had made himself scarce, choosing to either work with the horses and dogs, or to remain at the Wardens’ campsite. Anders seemed to be attempting to work some of his charms on a group of young hunters, and it made Líadan wonder how far he’d get. Dalliances were tolerated, given measures were taken to prevent reproduction. Not that it mattered for her, with the taint taking care of that little problem, or that what she had with Malcolm was a dalliance. If it were, things would be far easier, and her indecision over how to act with him here at the camp wouldn’t hurt so much. 

Saraid poked Malcolm in the side in what seemed to be an attempt at tickling the warrior. He gave her a mock frown, and then promptly stole her dessert from her other hand, holding it above his head as she tried to get it back, both of them laughing the entire time. _Where had he learned to interact with a child like that?_ Then she remembered that before the Blight, Malcolm had had a nephew, Oren, who’d been murdered in the attack on his foster family’s home. He returned the sweet to the girl and, truce made, they set back to their chatting. Something inside Líadan twinged, and she realized that if Malcolm stayed with her, he would never experience this sort of thing with a child of his own. It wasn’t just the matter of the taint that stopped them, but the matter of them producing a child of their own would be human, and she would be ending her line for the elves, a line that stretched back to the days of Arlathan, and one that included magic. If it wasn’t for the taint, there would be precautions she would be taking to make sure that didn’t happen, and she wasn’t sure if she would have agreed to be with him.

No, that wasn’t true. If she was honest with herself, she would have been with him, anyway, and just found a way to deal with the guilt. She’d been around plenty of elven men and hadn’t fallen in love with any of them. She’d even refused to really acknowledge what she felt for Malcolm until she hit a breaking point, struggling against what she’d been taught as a Dalish elf with how her heart had chosen to feel. Yes, the element of the taint in both of them took away one less layer of guilt, but it didn’t change how she would’ve acted or chosen had it not been there. 

Saraid leaned over and whispered something in Malcolm’s ear. He flashed a grin, pointed at Líadan, and then whispered something back to Saraid that Líadan couldn’t hear. The little girl leapt up, raced around the fire, and planted herself in front of Líadan. “Malcolm said that you killed an ogre all by yourself. Is that true? He said I should ask you for the story.”

Líadan made sure to shoot the still-grinning Malcolm a dirty look. Yes, because they absolutely should be teaching small children that fighting ogres alone was cool. She sighed and returned her attention to the child. “He must not have mentioned that he was doing a good job distracting it as I snuck up behind it. It was my blow that killed it, but I didn’t do it by myself. Taking on ogres alone isn’t something I recommend for anyone, even the finest hunter.”

“But you killed it!”

She knelt down to Saraid’s level. “I was able to kill it because I was working with other Wardens to take the ogre down together. Once, I tried to kill an ogre the other way, by myself, like you say. It didn’t work and I very nearly died. Teamwork with your fellow warriors is far more important than individual skill and possible glory, especially when you want everyone to live.”

Saraid scowled. “That’s what Malcolm said, kind of. He said most fights weren’t worth going into alone.”

“He would be right. But don’t tell him I said that. It’d make him insufferable.”

“What does ‘insufferable’ mean?” Saraid stumbled over the word a bit, but managed to say it correctly.

Líadan pursed her lips in thought. “Well, think about when you play a game with your older brother, and he wins. You know how he acts afterward? Where you want to punch him for it?”

Saraid nodded. “Yes.”

“That’s insufferable.”

“Oh!” Saraid tilted her head to the side. “Would you punch Malcolm for being insufferable?”

“I wouldn’t say I’d punch him, no. It’s not nice to punch people.” Líadan heard a snort of laughter from the opposite side of the fire and _knew_ Malcolm was eavesdropping. She also heard him mutter something about, _‘and hitting people with lightning_ is _nice? I had no idea.’_

“Come on, Saraid, I believe it’s your bedtime,” said Maren, joining the other women and picking up the child. Líadan stood, wishing it was a good time to ask Maren about the halla, but what’d happened had been traumatic, she didn’t want to traumatize Saraid, so she left the question alone. Maren said a quick goodnight to both her and the keeper, and left with Saraid in her arms. 

“I see that you are learning wisdom beyond your years during your time with the Grey Wardens,” Marethari said after a moment.

“I suppose.” Líadan didn’t think it was wisdom so much as life lessons learned after very nearly dying. She’d had way too many of those to count, and in some cases, not enough to entirely learn said lesson. Her curiosity had yet to really fade, and that’s what got her in most of her messes in the first place.

“Have you considered my offer at all, _da’len_? You have already stated where the clan and children like Saraid would be left if I had no First to take my place, should I perish.” 

Líadan wondered if Keeper Marethari had always been this manipulative, or if this was a new behavior. She’d been away for nearly two years, and her memories of being with the clan were tinged with fondness, and so it was hard to truly see what was going on. She did know enough of the world now to recognize manipulation when she saw it—and Marethari gave some of the best guilt trips Líadan had ever experienced. The precision with which she wielded guilt was almost surgical in where it cut, struck, twisted, and did its work. Earlier, after Malcolm had left to allow the two of them to speak in private, Marethari had asked Líadan to become her First. On hearing the request, Líadan had nearly forgotten how to breathe. “You aren’t going to perish anytime soon. At least, not as long as you stop staying permanently at the base of this mountain.”

“You never know what can happen.”

She resisted the urge to shout that she was in love with a human. That would stop Marethari from pressing the issue and make her move along and find another First. Or, maybe, allow her _actual_ First to return from wherever she’d gone. “Where is Merrill now? Do you know?”

“She is not here.”

“You said that. I even heard you. But you didn’t say where she had gone after you... she was...” She couldn’t bring herself to say it. _Arvhen’din_. Exile. When she thought ‘exile,’ she thought of Velanna, not Merrill. Merrill had been a very good First, if at times off-putting and mildly irritating. But that was the way Firsts and Keepers were, because they knew so much more, could _do_ so much more than the average Dalish elf. Merrill’s mind had always been on the betterment of the clan and the Dalish as a whole, and Líadan couldn’t conceive of Merrill being any other way. While she hadn’t always gotten along with her, she’d always respected her, and in some ways, had wished she could be like her, especially where magic was concerned. And now she wasn’t that First anymore. Instead, she was like Velanna, rejected by her clan, rejected by the People, and cast aside. It was a fate that would end in a lonely death, and a fate that frightened Líadan more than almost anything else she could fathom. Malcolm dying was the only other one that made her breath catch as much as being exiled. 

“Be wary of who else you choose to accompany you tomorrow on Sundermount,” said Marethari. “There is a varterral guarding one of the caches. It will allow descendants of _Elvhenan_ to pass, but no one else. Your dwarven, human, and qunari friends will need to remain outside the cavern unless you wish to fight the varterral.”

Somehow, she wasn’t surprised that yet another being she’d once thought mythical had turned out to be real. If only griffons would appear next, instead of more of the deadly kind of fantastical creatures. “Would the varterral allow an elf-blooded human to pass or only a full elf?”

Marethari lifted a brow. “You have an elf-blooded human with you? That is... surprising. Neither of the humans in your party look elf-blooded.”

“Malcolm’s mother was a city elf who became a Grey Warden. We met her when we went to Weisshaupt. He looks nothing like her, but he does act like her sometimes.” Particularly when he walked away when his temper got the best of him or he got too upset and didn’t want to show it. Or when he was deciding to be particularly stubborn. There was also something of her in him about the eyes, when he was lost in thought. “Neither of his brothers look like their mother, either, I’m told. So I guess his father’s blood really won out.” She didn’t bother with explaining that Fiona had also been Alistair’s mother, and Cailan had been the only one of the three with a human mother. 

“The varterral should be fine with him passing, so long as he truly does carry elven blood.”

“He does.” Líadan wasn’t sure why she felt defensive about Malcolm’s ancestry all of the sudden, but she did. It wasn’t like she’d lie about it to make up an excuse to allow him to be part of the party that was going up Sundermount to the main relic cache. They could bring others for the journey upward, but they would have to remain outside the cavern once they reached it, or risk the varterral attacking the entire group. She realized she needed to brief the others about what to expect on the mountain, and why they were going up there. Apparently, the final battle with Tevinter hadn’t been on the White Spire like she’d once thought. It had been here at Sundermount where her ancestors had made their final, last-ditch effort against the Tevinter Imperium, and not on the mountain that’d stood as guardian over Arlathan. She wasn’t sure if that meant an eluvian might be waiting up there or not. If they were more than methods of communication, if they were gateways like the presence of Falon’Din and Dirthamen indicated, then maybe the last of the warriors could’ve used one to escape. But then the notes had said that the eluvians were lost after Arlathan fell, and the battle here would’ve been after that. They had to check. “Where is the eluvian Tamlen and I found?”

Marethari leveled a steady gaze on her and slowly folded her arms across her chest. “You will not give this up easily, will you?” When Líadan only returned Marethari’s look, the older woman sighed. “No, you never have. Come with me to my aravel and we shall discuss it further.” Then Marethari started for her home.

Líadan risked a glance over at Malcolm, letting him know that she’d eventually catch up with him later. He got the messages, and his nod in return was nearly imperceptible and only recognizable if one had been looking for it. Then she was heading for the keeper’s aravel, not looking forward to what she was fairly certain would devolve into shouting on her part and outward serene calm from Marethari. As much as she wanted and needed the acceptance of her people, these very same people could be very _trying_. And from their earlier conversation, it had been all too apparent that Marethari didn’t want to talk about the eluvian, Merrill, or anything other than convincing Líadan that she should return to the Mahariel and be their First. Not sodding likely, but that didn’t stop the guilt. 

When she stepped inside the aravel, Marethari handed her a mug of Dalish tea, something she had dearly missed while with the Wardens. Líadan accepted it gladly, savoring the smell. However, even the offer of tea wouldn’t deter her from trying to get the keeper to cooperate. “The Grey Wardens sent us to the Brecilian Forest to pick up the remains of the eluvian and secure it in case any of it was still tainted. When we got there, we discovered that while the frame and statues were still there, all of the glass was gone.”

Marethari looked unsurprised. “And you assumed that it was in my possession?”

“Yes, I did. I mean, it makes the most sense. You and Merrill had wanted to study it, I remember that much. You were very upset when you found out about Alistair having smashed it. I hadn’t realized that your outlook had changed so drastically.”

“That mirror has taken Tamlen’s life, and it nearly took yours. One would think you, of all people, would understand the danger it poses and why it then must be left alone.”

Líadan’s thumb moved restlessly along the rim of the mug. She didn’t understand. She knew why Marethari assumed she would, but the keeper didn’t have all the information she did. “Look, when we went back this last time, we had two dwarven Wardens with us. They were able to figure out that the statue of Falon’Din that we saw in the hallway outside the room with the eluvian once stood right next to the mirror. They also figured out that once, on the opposite side from Falon’Din, had stood Dirthamen.”

“And?”

 _Creators, is she being deliberately obtuse?_ “It means that the Tevinter statues that were on either side of the mirror were put there by the Tevinters. That Falon’Din and Dirthamen had once been standing guard or had been ready to guide whoever used the eluvian. That it might mean they were gateways to... somewhere. I don’t know where. Maybe the Beyond, maybe some other place. That’s why we came to you, because this is something you’d know. Something Merrill would’ve known, too. This is your area of expertise, not mine.”

“It could be yours, _da’len_ , if you are willing to learn.”

Líadan suddenly wanted to punch something. Not Marethari, but the keeper’s pressure was certainly driving her there. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “If you won’t help us sift through the knowledge we’ve collected, will you at least tell me where Merrill is?” Perhaps she could run everything by Merrill, and Merrill would come up with one of her brilliant connections from her vast stores of _elvhen_ history. 

“That is not something I can do. I am sorry.”

She wondered if this was what it felt like to run your head repeatedly into a stone wall. It certainly felt like it. Had she really been so stressed out over the past week about returning? It was like she’d completely forgotten how _frustrating_ Marethari could be. One thing that Líadan had always greatly appreciated about Fiona was how up front the woman had been. She wished desperately for that sort of thing right now. “Why not?” Then the realization struck her that it could be worse than she thought. “Is Merrill dead?”

“I can tell you as much as this: Merrill is not dead. She is alive. The last I heard, she was in Kirkwall.”

The human city with all the templars, which was most assuredly a fantastic place for an apostate Dalish blood mage to be. “But is she well?”

“I don’t know how she can be when she is not here with her clan.”

Líadan barely stopped herself in time from asking Marethari if she even cared. She knew the answer to that—Marethari cared very much. Merrill had been with the Mahariel clan as Marethari’s apprentice since she was four years old, and given how Merrill only saw her parents one time after she’d become one of the Mahariel, Marethari was as close to a mother as Merrill had. It didn’t mean that Líadan understood what was going on, or that she liked it at all, but she could tell that the motherly love Marethari had for Merrill had not gone away. So instead of asking an incredibly hurtful question, she took a sip of warm tea instead. It was far better than allowing herself to dwell on the not-so-subtle implication that Marethari had made for her as well—that Líadan could not be well, either, since she was also not with her clan. But that only applied to her if she still accepted, still _believed_ , that her clan was still the Mahariel. Her grasp on that particular belief was tenuous. She shoved the thought away and went back to the tea.

“Fenarel came to see me while you were speaking with Cammen and Gheyna. He presented me with a bear pelt,” Marethari said in a conversational tone.

“Why would he do that? He’s already a full hunter. He was a hunter two years before I was.” The tea was _wonderful_. She needed to make sure to get a good supply of leaves before they left to continue their search for Morrigan. She took another sip.

“He wished to secure permission from me to ask you to bond with him. Since your parents are no longer with us, I am the one whom custom requires he approach.”

Líadan choked on her tea. Tamlen she could have seen having done this, especially with his confession right before he’d tried to kill her as he succumbed to the taint. But Fenarel? He’d always barely tolerated her. He was two years older, and he’d never treated her with more than a cursory glance or younger sister to be barely tolerated. “I hope you gave the pelt back.” 

Marethari leaned back in her chair. “Why would I do that? Your two lines would make a good match, Fenarel will eventually lead the clan’s hunters, and if you become my First—”

“I _can’t_ become your First.” Líadan couldn’t let the keeper go on with that line of thought, not when she heard such hope in her voice. “Keeper, I’m a Grey Warden, and that’s all I can ever be. This is—”

“The Blight is over, is it not? The Grey Wardens cannot have such a great need for you now as they did before. Surely they can spare you. I do not know what you expect me to do otherwise, _da_ —”

Líadan stood up, her voice rising as she tried to get the keeper to listen to her. “Yes, you know what to do. Call an _Arlathvhen_. Send out messages to other clans requesting an apprentice. Send those messages out with the ones you should have already sent asking for more halla. Creators, let Merrill come back! It isn’t like she was sacrificing children under a full moon. You have many options, Keeper, but I am not one of them.” She also cannot forget that Marethari is the woman who sent her away from her people, her clan. It’s a deep, old wound that festered under a delicate, barely healed skin, bubbling in outrage that Marethari had done this again, to another clanmate, under the guise of caring. Only this clanmate wasn’t given to the clan of Grey Wardens—she had been cut loose, sent into a thriving, yet lonely human city to fend for herself, without the benefit of any kin. Líadan had forgotten the acceptance she so much wanted was fraught with guilt, and that for choosing a path that the keeper hadn’t chosen, you could end up without anyone. She carefully set the half-empty mug down on the small table and left the aravel before she said anything worse than she already had.

The door clattered shut behind her, and she stepped into the slight chill of the mountain night. It should have felt familiar, standing outside an aravel, experiencing the sights and sounds of a Dalish camp in the nighttime, like the occasional snick of an opening aravel door, the intermittent whispers and laughter carried on the breeze, or the soft glow of banked cookfires. Yet gone were things that never should be absent from a Dalish camp—the strange shadow cast by the statue of the Dread Wolf from the light of the moon, and the familiar bleating of the halla in their pen. But there was no pen, no halla, no shadow, and no statue. No Fen’Harel set aside from the camp and facing away, no reminder to be wary. No halla present to listen to the voice of Ghilan’nain and guide the People. She’d noted the absence of the halla and the statue in the world outside Dalish camps, but because the rest of Thedas was a place where those items had never been, it hadn’t bothered her. It was here in the camp that had once been her home, where those things were missing from where they should be, when they left empty places in her heart and mind, that she felt disturbed. The combination of things present and things yet still missing reminded her that this place, this clan, though they had raised her and made her who she was, was no longer her home.

The uncertainty she’d felt in the past week roared back, banishing away the temporary balm that had been Marethari’s warm greeting when they had arrived at the camp. She wanted the acceptance of what had been her old home, the one she had been forced to leave, but that home no longer existed. It didn’t exist for her or anyone, except for in memory. She wondered if this was anything like what Malcolm felt when he returned to Highever after the Blight. If it was, it explained, even more, why he had almost immediately left for Weisshaupt. After all, if home was a stranger, then a strange land would feel no different, and far less unsettling.

Like a Grey Warden camp with no halla and no statues of gods from the elven pantheon, that wasn’t strange. But a Dalish camp without halla and statues? Unsettling.

Shaken, her frustration with Marethari churning into a tight anxiety, she slipped into the darkness to make her way to the only home she knew now. As she moved through the wide shadows of the aravels, she heard the voices of Fenarel and Junar chatting as they walked a patrol of the perimeter of the camp. She hadn’t even let the news of Fenarel’s intentions sink in because she’d been so busy rejecting them to Marethari. She would have to make sure to seek him out tomorrow and tell him that she would not bond with him. He wasn’t the right one, even if the match looked good to the keeper. Of that, Líadan was very certain.

And the keeper, with her little arrow of insight into Fenarel, had successfully kept Líadan from continuing her press for information about the eluvian. More specifically, kept her from determining the location of the eluvian’s glass. She’d gotten Merrill’s last known whereabouts, but she wasn’t sure about going into Kirkwall. What Anders had said about the city was more than alarming, and despite having Grey Warden immunity from the purview of the human-run Chantry, it’d be a great risk to go in with only a wisp of hope at finding Merrill.

She glanced up at the looming mountain, the only place she knew they had to visit while they were there, even if Marethari refused to cooperate. Perhaps they would find more information in the relics up there. Most likely, there would not be an eluvian, or the last stand of the _Enasalin’abelas_ would have been so final and tragic. Perhaps they could find information about where one could be. If it all turned out to be wash, maybe they’d at least be able to help Cammen secure a pelt of some sort. Cammen wasn’t the best hunter, but he wasn’t a terrible one, either. It’d surprised her to hear that he’d yet to get a proper pelt, though she supposed the interference of the Blight could’ve played a part in making game and opportunities to hunt scarce. And if such things were scarce, it was better to let the more competent, full hunters do the hunting rather than leave it to an apprentice.

Leaving the aravels behind, Líadan moved into the Grey Warden camp at the periphery of the Dalish campsite. Someone had already banked the fire, and the two mabari had sacked out in front of the tent she shared with Malcolm. Their camp was far enough from the bulk of the Dalish camp that unless one of the Dalish were very determined to spy, they would not be observed. Yet, it was still close enough to the main part of the camp that the hunters’ guard patrols would serve as well as a Warden standing on watch. As such, every Warden was in their tent, presumably asleep, and finally had a chance for a full night’s rest, and several in a row, at that. When Líadan got closer to the tent’s entrance, Gunnar lifted his head for a moment, huffed his greeting, and then settled back to sleep. Revas was up and running around her in a circle like she’d been away forever instead of a few hours.

As she gave her mabari a good rub behind the ears and fended off the dog’s kisses to her chin, Líadan realized how _human_ it was, that a mabari had imprinted on her. While the Dalish did use dogs—deerhounds, usually—they weren’t like the legendary mabari. There was something about the breed’s association with Ferelden that made having one imprint on you a very _human_ thing. Not a bad thing, as she was discovering, like quite a few things that were human. She told Revas to go back to sleep, and then slipped into the tent.

Malcolm didn’t stir, already fully asleep in the bedroll, his head pillowed on his right arm as he slept, as he always did, on his right side. The only times he didn’t sleep on his right side was when he was injured, like for a week during the winter after Alistair had bested him in some sort of sparring match, leaving Malcolm with a hurting shoulder and a bruised ego that wouldn’t let him admit to any of the Warden healers that he needed it fixed. After seven days of Malcolm tossing and turning in his sleep because he kept rolling over onto his side from his back, Líadan had fetched Anders herself, sparing Malcolm nothing of his bruised ego.

She quickly and quietly removed what pieces of armor she’d left on, and then sat on the bedroll, just next to Malcolm, but without touching him. Her mind, still trying to comprehend what Marethari had said about Fenarel, tried to imagine the Dalish elf in Malcolm’s place, and it just couldn’t be done. What’s more was that she didn’t _want_ it to be done. The man she preferred, human as he was, was already there in her life. Like she had said to him on the docks in Highever, he was, despite her being a Dalish elf and him being human, her home.

It was strange to think that her people, the Dalish clan that she’d grown up in, wanted to take her away from him. They wanted—or at least Marethari did—her as a First, and eventually a keeper. Fenarel, for some reason, wanted her as a wife, which was bordering on absurd for her. Once, before she’d ever encountered the ruins and the eluvian, and then the Wardens and the world outside existence in a Dalish clan, she would have been tempted to stay. She never would have even considered leaving. It just wasn’t done, and she wouldn’t have cared for it.

But she had left. She’d left and the clan had moved on, she had moved on, and nothing could ever be the same. And on returning, she was discovering that she didn’t want it to be. She wasn’t sure if she was quite ready to declare to the clan that she loved a human, but she wasn’t going to give him up. If that meant she had to tell Marethari and Fenarel and the others, she would. What she and Malcolm had worked for, what they’d almost given up on and lost before it really started, was too important to let go. Grey Wardens could forge their own way, separate as they were from every society, and they ultimately paid a high price for their freedoms. They might as well take what they could before the darkness fell upon them.

Still, it was very hard to tell Marethari no, especially when she decided to ignore what you said and press on with her agenda until you gave in out of exasperation. 

Líadan reached out and traced the line of Malcolm’s jaw with her fingertips, moving her hand down along his neck to rest on his chest. His free hand came up and cupped hers there, but he didn’t awaken, even though a slight smile graced his lips. The coil of anxiety that had knotted her insides started to loosen.

Then the nightmare she’d experienced in the Planasene came back to her, the one where she’d relived being ripped away from her people. She realized that she was doing this to herself, that she was ripping herself away from the home she’d found once her first had disappeared. “ _Emma inan’din ma dar navhen, emma harel_ ,” she whispered.

Malcolm’s dark blue eyes opened and regarded her in the scant light. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice rough with the vestiges of sleep. “I can’t retain enough spoken Elvish to fully understand what you said, but it was in that ‘I’m sad and upset’ tone of voice.”

“Marethari asked me to become her First.” While she would tell him about the keeper’s offer, she decided it might be best to remain silent about Fenarel’s gesture. She’d take care of that in private, because the less amount of male posturing, the better.

He blinked several times and rose up on his elbow, letting go of Líadan’s hand to rub at his eyes. “If you...” He paused and let out a steadying breath, and it took him a long moment to answer. “I remember what you said to her about the clan being in trouble if she died without having a ready apprentice. I understand if you need to do it, and if you need to stay here for your people, then you have my leave.”

“You want me to stay?” Both her hands jerked back into her lap, fingers twisting at each other in worry. Doubt ran rampant within her, that perhaps he was using this as an excuse to extract himself from his relationship with her, to end their more intimate ties, so that he would be free to be with Morrigan once they found her. Another part of her insisted that wasn’t fair to him, that he had been as honest with her as he’d been with himself, and if he was truly contemplating leaving with Morrigan, he would say so.

His eyes opened wider and the sleepiness entirely disappeared. “No! No, I don’t.” He sat up, the blankets falling to pool around his waist, and took both her hands in his to still them. “I never want you to leave my side, and I’m serious about that. But I also don’t want to trap you or be a chain on you or keep you from doing what you feel like needs to be done. Like I won’t stop Morrigan, I won’t stop you. If this is important to you, then it matters more than whatever relationship and future you could build with a shem. I’m not an elf. I’m not Dalish. I can’t help you preserve anything of your history, except maybe the stuff with the eluvian, but you know what I mean. I won’t keep you from your family. I know how important it is.”

“You aren’t a shem.” It was the first thing she latched onto after the outrage it sparked to hear him, yet again, refer to himself as such. Then she realized exactly how deeply her own uncertainty had struck Malcolm, that he truly believed she would leave, choosing them over him when he and the Grey Wardens were closer to her than her clan now.

He gave her a lopsided smile. “That’s not what quite a few of your clanmates have to say.”

“Then they need better manners, especially around Grey Wardens.”

“Maybe.” Then he sighed and looked down, studying her hands held in his. “Don’t refuse Marethari just for me.”

“I’m not refusing her just for you. I’m refusing her for me. It just took me a little while to realize that. I know I’ve told you that you’ve become my home and my people, but even though I told you first, I seemed to forget that. I lost sight of it in all my fear and trepidation as we made our way through the Planasene on our return here. A Dalish camp, the Mahariel clan, it isn’t my life anymore. It isn’t my home.”

His thumbs caressed the tops of her hands. “Have you told Marethari that? I can’t see that going well.”

“I spent most of my second talk with her trying not to say very mean things. And when I wasn’t doing my best concentrating on being nice, I was resisting the urge to shout that I was in love with a human.”

“Well, if you really wanted, you could go shout that right now.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “That would wake up the clan’s children.”

“You’d shout that loudly?” He chuckled. “And I can’t believe _that’s_ your objection.”

“I wouldn’t want it to be a half-measure, not after all the uncertainty.” She was also fairly certain that Fenarel would get the message at that point. If he didn’t take her refusal of courtship seriously, it was either the shouting or resorting to constant displays of affection within the Dalish camp. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for that. Her decision had been made, but they still had days left of work to do here, and feeling the constant disapproval of the clan’s eyes on her would remind her far too much of her time at court in Denerim. That, and all the intrigue and human women trying to insinuate themselves at Malcolm’s side. She sighed. He needed to know about Fenarel, posturing aside. If he found out from anyone but her, even after her wishes had been made clear to the hunter, he would feel uncertain. She would, in his place, and it wouldn’t be fair of her to put him in that position. “There’s something else you should know that Marethari told me.”

Malcolm slumped back onto the bedroll, facing the material of the tent’s angled ceiling. “I’m afraid to ask. She already wanted to make you her First. What else could be left to take you away?”

She settled in next to him, her fingers brushing across the planes of his abdomen before moving up to his chest. “She told me that Fenarel brought her a bear pelt and asked for her permission to bond with me.”

“He—where is he? I’ll talk to him myself.” Malcolm tensed and he started to sit up, his body language making it clear that ‘talk’ wasn’t what he had in mind. 

Líadan had anticipated his reaction, and pressed him back down with her pre-positioned hand. “I can refuse him all on my own. I don’t need you to do it for me.”

Malcolm slowly relaxed, though not completely. “I’d feel better if—”

“If what? You beat him up?”

“Maybe.” The reply was slightly sheepish, yet entirely true.

She sighed and moved her hand lower, now that Malcolm had stopped resisting. “He’s on guard patrol right now.” She pushed herself up so that she was over him, her lips tantalizingly close to his. “And elves have very good hearing, as you well know. Perhaps he’ll get curious when the patrol route gets close to the Warden camp. Perhaps he’ll find out that I’m already taken.” Her hand slipped lower, making sure Malcolm understood her intent.

He grinned and drew her closer. “You know, I like the way you think.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish Translations:
> 
> -Líadan: “Emma inan’din ma dar navhen, emma harel.”  
> “I didn’t see that you’re my people, my home.”


	77. Chapter 77

**Chapter 77**

“Vir Inan: The Way of the Watcher

Be wise and wary;

Seek truth, do not ignore,

And walk with eyes never shut.

That is my Way.”

—excerpt from _The Charge of Sylaise the Hearthkeeper_

**Líadan**

A chuckle outside the tent barely registered in Líadan’s mostly asleep mind before her slumber was rudely ended by a mabari’s wet muzzle shoved enthusiastically into her face. She batted at the half-grown pup, knowing it had to be Revas, because Gunnar had not _once_ been this rude. The older mabari entirely grasped the concept of the necessity of sleep and not interrupting it except for dire emergencies. Well, perhaps Revas understood the same, but did not quite have the same definition of ‘dire emergency’ as the rest of them. For her, the emergency could very well just be that she hadn’t seen her master in a few hours. “Go _away_.”

The mabari licked Líadan’s chin once more, and then shuffled off only a little, changing her position and angle of attack before leaping onto Malcolm, who was tucked behind Líadan and against the cloth wall of the tent. Malcolm let out a choked cry, to which Revas responded with a growl that was, for the most part, playful. 

“We should’ve left you with Alistair, you little pest,” Malcolm said to the dog. “It’s barely sunrise. At least my dog has the decency to let me sleep. Go back outside. Who let you in, anyway?”

The chuckles from outside the tent grew in volume, and Líadan recognized Anders’ laugh. All of the man’s Tower escape attempts had left him with a penchant for early rising, and even being cheerful about it, to boot. “Anders, go away.”

“But it’s nearly time for breakfast! Or so I was told by a runner who came by. And don’t you have mountain exploration to do? Well, actual mountain exploration and not Malcolm exploring—”

“That’s enough! We’re getting up.” Líadan sighed, shoved Revas away, and very reluctantly crawled out of the bedroll. Malcolm took immediate advantage of her absence, taking all the blankets she’d abandoned and shifting to rest in the middle of the bedroll. Revas bolted out of the tent and Líadan, having gathered her belongings, followed. After flinging Anders a rude gesture in return for letting Revas into the tent, she headed for the bathing area she knew was always set up for the Dalish camp. 

When she returned, she found Malcolm sitting on a rock, bathed, dressed, and armored. He was also frowning at his boot while he nudged Revas away with his socked foot. On closer inspection, Líadan realized Malcolm was frowning at what looked like teeth marks in one of the leather sections of his boot. He didn’t bother looking up as he said, “Your dog tried to eat my boot.”

“If your boot isn’t solidly enough constructed to protect your foot from a mabari’s teeth, then it won’t have much better luck against protecting you from other things will it?” she asked, but tugged Revas away from savaging Malcolm’s foot all the same. “She was just helping you.”

Malcolm gave her a dubious look, scowled, and then put on his boot. “I saw Cammen when I was cleaning up at the baths. He said he’s supposed to come with us up to Sundermount today?”

“Yes. And I know you overheard what I told him, so don’t try playing innocent. He’ll be fine. We’ll bring Anders and Sten with us, too.”

He sighed. “Sundermount. You know, that isn’t really a difficult name to decipher. I doubt that mountain was named Sundermount before that last battle. The battle where they, you know, _sundered the Veil_.” Malcolm cast an uneasy look up at the mountain. “Probably no eluvian, considering the history. So why are we going up there, again?”

“Artifacts.”

“Artifacts. Right. So the real final battle... was that on the White Spire or here at Sundermount?” He shivered. “Okay, Sundermount is now officially a creepier name than the Deep Roads. And that’s saying a lot.”

“There’s also a varterral up there, guarding the artifacts, so once we get up to the cavern, Anders and Sten will have to wait outside.” From the drawings she’d seen of varterrals, they seemed to vaguely resemble spiders with their giant, spindly legs. She decided to keep that part to herself and deal with it if they actually happened to see a one. It would probably involve a lot of gibbering and cowering on Malcolm’s part. He was good at playing the hero when it came to beasts like dragons and ogres, but put him up against anything vaguely spider-like, and all bets were off. Well, except the bets Oghren ran on just how much like a little girl Malcolm’s scream would sound next time.

“A... what?”

“It’s a creature made by Dirthamen.” Líadan let out a sigh and dredged up the full story, as passed along to the Dalish by Gisharel, from memory. “In the days before Arlathan, there was a city in the mountains beloved by Dirthamen, Keeper of Secrets. Its people were wise beyond measure, thanks to his counsel, and the city flourished. Then a high dragon settled in the mountains, and her hunger threatened the city. The elders cried out to Dirthamen for protection as the dragon’s rampages struck ever closer, and for three days and nights, the people shut themselves in their homes and watched the skies in dread.

“On the fourth day, Dirthamen heard them. He whispered into the mountains and the fallen trees of the forest gathered, shaping an immense and agile spider-like beast. It was the varterral. With lightning speed, vicious strikes, and the venomous spit, it drove back the serpent. From then on, it was the guardian of the city and its people.

“Many years passed. The gods were trapped by Fen’Harel and the people left to gather in Arlathan, but the varterral kept its everlasting vigil, guarding Dirthamen’s city as it eventually crumbled to dust. To this day it stands there, watching over the rubble. Any travelers foolish enough to wander there find themselves face to face with wrath incarnate.”

Malcolm stood, abandoning his seat on the rock. “ _Wrath incarnate?_ Did I hear that right? How is that supposed to be reassuring? I mean, I know you feel all protected and stuff because you happen to be a Dalish elf, but I’m _not_.”

“I know you aren’t. For starters, you’re far too tall. You’re elf-blooded, though, and the varterral should recognize that.”

He shook his head. “Yeah, still not reassuring. Maybe I should stay here and you should take other elves with you. You know, people who look more elf-like.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re going.”

“So what do we do if the varterral decides to attack me, anyway?”

“Then we kill it. In case you’ve forgotten, it’s something we both excel at.”

“But... that thing is up there to protect elven artifacts. If we kill it, the artifacts won’t be protected anymore.”

“Well, we wouldn’t be killing it so much as knocking it out for a while. Even if you chop it up, it will reassemble, given time. It’s immortal. Probably due to some sort of moral statement about wrath being eternal or something, but there you have it. Anyway, it won’t really be dead even if we have to ‘kill’ it. No need for the guilt, so stop dragging your feet and climb the mountain with the foreboding name with us.”

Malcolm folded his arms across his chest and gave her a suspicious look. “I think you’re trying to kill me.”

Creators, the sun was barely up and he was already testing her patience. “If I were trying to kill you, I’d have done it a long time ago, and I would be far more direct about it. Quit being an old woman and come with me.”

Oghren snorted. “She’s got you there. You are being a bit of a ninny.”

Malcolm spun to face the dwarf. “Wrath incarnate, Oghren. Did you not hear that part?”

He shrugged. “What’s a little wrath? I spent years married to Branka. I’m not scared of a little wrath, and you shouldn’t be, either. I’d go with you, but dwarves aren’t meant for climbing on mountains. We’re meant for digging under them and such.”

She didn’t bother waiting for Malcolm’s reply. “I’m going to get breakfast and to fetch Cammen. Meet me at the base of the trail in thirty minutes if I don’t see you at the cookfires.” Líadan left the others at the Wardens’ camp, with Anders packing poultices and potions just in case something happened on the mountain, and Malcolm grousing at Revas. She figured Sten must’ve gone to take care of the horses, and perhaps Sigrun went with him. If Fenarel was at the morning meal, she’d have a chance to pull him aside and make certain he knew she wasn’t going to agree to bonding with him. Marethari couldn’t be depended upon for clearing up that matter, not with her being so adamant about Líadan becoming her First even though she’d already said no, and repeatedly done so. 

Fenarel, unfortunately, wasn’t at breakfast, though Marethari was, and Líadan had to step quickly to avoid speaking with the keeper. Once she had eaten and stayed just long enough to be polite, she took Cammen by the arm and hauled him toward the base of the trail. The other Wardens had yet to appear, so she plopped herself on a rock, electing to study the blade on her staff that she’d laid across her knees as she sat. 

Cammen seemed distinctly uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot, and casting wary glances not up at Sundermount, but back at the main area of the Dalish camp. Líadan slowly looked up from her staff and at the other elf. “What is it?”

“One of the other hunters insisted on coming with us up the mountain today,” Cammen said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Said he had to verify that I got the kill, in case it isn’t an animal with a pelt I can bring back as proof. Or that you or one of the shems wouldn’t lie and say I’d gotten my kill if I didn’t.”

“They’re Wardens.” Líadan pinned Cammen with a level gaze. “Two are human, two are dwarves, and one is a qunari. None of them are shemlen. Not to me.”

He shifted again. “I understand.”

A rueful smile tugged at her lips. “No, you don’t, but I appreciate the attempt.” She sighed, letting Cammen off the hook. He hadn’t meant an insult by using the word. Habit was all it was, yet it was a habit he needed to break. All Dalish did if they were going to be able to share a world with humans, dwarves, and qunari. “What hunter is accompanying us?”

“Fenarel.”

Her bland look changed to a grimace. “Of course he is.” Wonderful. Things needed to be more awkward on their little trek up the mountain and she was fairly certain Fenarel and, consequently, Junar, had heard something going on in the Warden camp late last night. Between elven ears, making little effort to be quiet, and Malcolm apparently feeling the need to prove something, there had been sounds easily overheard. If Fenarel appeared before the other Wardens met up with them, she couldn’t exactly shoo Cammen away. Well, she could, but it wouldn’t be very nice and Cammen would end up even more nervous and paranoid. Plus, Fenarel would feel insulted at Líadan turning him down while in front of someone else. 

“You haven’t given him an answer yet?” asked Cammen, looking confused.

Líadan tapped at the butt end of her staff. “He hasn’t asked me anything. He approached Marethari and gave her a pelt, but he has yet to say a word to me. Nor do I intend to give him permission if he ever bothers to ask. I should’ve been asked first, before he went to Marethari, for one.” She left off her list of several other reasons why she would be telling Fenarel, rather emphatically, no.

“Others say it would be a good match.”

“It would not. I’m a Grey Warden. I’m not here to stay. I’m here to visit.”

Cammen sighed and looked wistfully up at Sundermount. “I wish I could be a Grey Warden.”

Líadan’s head jerked up and she frowned at him. “No, you don’t. You don’t want to be a Grey Warden because it takes precedence over being Dalish. It becomes more important than the clan, than your kin, than even yourself. It’s a dark existence, darker than the deepest forest. What you want is to become a full hunter, to bond with Gheyna, stay with the Mahariel, have children, and raise a family. That’s where true glory is, Cammen, and don’t let anyone tell you different.”

He studied her, taking in her words. “Then why is it you reject what you just told me to seek?”

“Because I’m already a Warden and I cannot take steps backward.” The rueful smile returned. “You see, I tried that. I came here, thinking it was home, but the home I remembered was gone. I cannot return. But you’re still here, and you can stay, so long as you choose it.”

Cammen seemed like he was about to say something else, but Malcolm strolled around the corner with Saraid practically bouncing at his side. “No, you can’t come with us. There’s apparently really scary things up on the mountain,” Malcolm was saying to the girl.

“But you can slay them!” Saraid seemed unable to be disabused of the notion that Malcolm couldn’t slay anything threatening that meandered into his path. “I mean, you killed dragons, so creatures from the Beyond can’t be scary to you!”

Líadan wondered if Maren even knew that her youngest had traipsed off with one of the Wardens. She sighed and raised an eyebrow at Malcolm.

He shrugged. “What? She found me at the cookfire and followed me. I don’t think she’s scared of anything. Not varterrals, not dragons, not bears—”

“Bears are Dirthamen’s favorite!” said Saraid.

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “They still have _teeth_ and claws and they still get cranky when you’re in a place you shouldn’t be.”

“You have a sword.” Saraid’s small hand patted at the shield on Malcolm’s back. “And you have a shield. You can keep the bear from hurting anyone.”

“You’re far worse than my nephew ever was, you know,” he told her. “He was older than you are, and he was convinced that going to dangerous places where there would be battles was a bad thing for someone of his age.” He bent to her level. “Look, a sword and shield can’t protect everyone.”

Saraid motioned toward Líadan. “That’s why you have magic!” Then her little hands pointed at Cammen. “And bows and arrows! Everyone working together in a hunting party to keep everyone safe. That’s how it works with the hunters.”

“But I’m not a Dalish hunter, remember?” Malcolm pulled at one of his rounded ears. “I’m human.”

“My mother says you’re all right, even for a human. You helped save Líadan, and she’s come back to us after she saved the whole world.”

“I helped stop the Blight,” said Líadan. “I didn’t kill the archdemon myself. I was just there.” She didn’t add that by the time the archdemon died, she’d been on the ground and almost passed out from blood loss from the shriek attack. Then she remembered what sorts of pets Saraid had liked to collect ever since she was old enough to walk—lizards, salamanders, frogs, toads, and her favorite, spiders. “Besides, for all the hero Malcolm is, he’s still afraid of things.”

Saraid crossed her arms and looked defiantly at Líadan. “I don’t believe you! Look how tall he is! He’s even taller than Fenarel, and he’s the tallest warrior.”

Malcolm ran an embarrassed hand over his eyes, and then gave Líadan a pleading look, asking her to _not_ out his fear to the small child. She smirked at him then gave the child next to him a bright smile. “Let’s just say that Malcolm here would not like to meet your favorite kind of pet.”

“He doesn’t like spiders? But Mister Legs is awesome!” Saraid shifted her heartbroken look from Líadan to Malcolm. “You’d squish Mister Legs?”

He sighed. “No. I wouldn’t squish him. I’d probably just run away screaming.”

The image made the girl giggle. “Okay. So long as you don’t squish him.”

Then Revas and Gunnar came trotting around the corner, with Anders and Sten walking right behind the mabari. Malcolm collared both dogs, and then turned to Saraid again. “How about you stay here at the camp, but you watch over the dogs while we’re gone? Or they’ll watch over you, depending on what happens.”

Saraid seemed dubious that she was really being afforded some sort of honor to replace the possibility of going up Sundermount, but then Revas licked her face, and then child, puppy, and fully grown dog were scampering off together within seconds. Malcolm stood and glared at Líadan. “Did you really have to tell the _child_ that I’m afraid of spiders?”

“We wouldn’t want her working under the misconception that you aren’t afraid of anything.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m afraid of plenty of other things. High dragons, rabid dogs, archdemons, Sten when he smiles, you when you’re in a snit. I could go on. I learned these kinds of lists from Nathaniel. He’s chock full of them.”

She ignored the dig. “I’ve never seen Sten smile.”

“And you will not,” said Sten. 

“Exactly why the very idea of it happening frightens me.” Malcolm kicked at the dirt and adjusted how his sword rode on his hip. “Are we ready to go up yet? Not that I’m jumping for joy with excitement about this varterral.”

“This what?” asked Anders.

Líadan sighed. “Varterral.” Then she explained to Sten and Anders what the creature was, and that once they got to the cavern, she’d have them wait outside just in case. 

“Shouldn’t Malcolm wait outside as well?” asked Cammen.

“See, that’s exactly what I asked,” said Malcolm. “But _apparently_ it’s safe for me since my mother was an elf. I’m not buying it, but since I’m the one who stands a chance of being eaten, it’s not my place to complain.”

“Huh, wouldn’t have thought that.” Cammen narrowed his eyes at him for a moment, and then shrugged. “You aren’t very elf-like.”

“Really? And here I thought my ears might’ve been a little on the pointy side, for a human.”

Líadan barely stopped herself from reaching out and tracing the outline of Malcolm’s ear. She hadn’t quite admitted it yet, but she sort of liked his ears. He’d look odd with pointed ones, given his strong bone structure. She got to her feet, idly twirling her staff and staring up at the trail they were to take up Sundermount. 

“I wouldn’t be able to say,” said Cammen. “I haven’t seen enough humans to make an accurate comparison.”

“One is enough and too many,” came Fenarel’s voice, stepping around the same corner the others had. When Líadan turned, she caught Fenarel giving Anders and Malcolm an unrestrained look of disgust. His look toward Sten, however, was respectful. 

Cammen frowned. “You shouldn’t say that. As much as you might not like humans, they did save Líadan from death.”

“And yet not Tamlen. They killed him, did they not?”

“The taint killed Tamlen,” said Líadan. To be more accurate, their curiosity killed him, since if they hadn’t explored those ruins, they never would’ve encountered the broken eluvian, and never would’ve been tainted. But if Fenarel was insisting on the humans being the reason Tamlen died, the taint would have to do as the real reason. “If you men are ready, we need to get going. We’ll need to be off the mountain by sundown if at all possible.” With that, she started up the trail, setting a quick, steady pace at the front. Marethari had given her proper descriptions of what to expect from other expeditions. If their group hadn’t gone today, it would’ve been another group of hunters and the keeper, Líadan assumed. 

It took only minutes before Fenarel caught up with her. She held in a sigh, and glanced back to see Malcolm speaking in low tones with Cammen, and Anders chatting up Sten, with Sten glowering, as he usually did whenever Anders spoke. It seemed there would be no useful interruption from the others if Fenarel decided he wanted to bring up his request. She adjusted her grip on her staff, wishing she could stave off the headache starting to form at the base of her skull. 

“Marethari says you’ve yet to give her an answer,” said Fenarel.

“I’ve yet to give her the answer she wants to hear, she means,” Líadan said, correcting him. 

“Then why is it that you lead an expedition to find more relics for our people?”

“I’m looking for clues in an investigation into a Grey Warden matter that happens to coincide with _Elvhenan_. One that also happens to coincide with my personal past. It is nothing more than that. I’m not staying with the clan once we’ve finished our work here.” _Please don’t ask, it will be_ awkward _and it’s not even mid-morning and we have to interact all day_.

“I don’t understand why you would give up your people, your clan.”

She thought about giving him an explanation, as full of one as she could give, covering everything from the taint to the Wardens to loving a human, but opted to give him less to argue with. “No, you wouldn’t understand.” 

“Perhaps you need reason to stay. Something or someone important.”

Her head whipped around to face him. “Really? You’re going in that—” She stopped, feeling the Veil shift and the presence of something from the Beyond in their realm, and dropped into a defensive stance. “Draw your weapons!” 

“I feel it, too,” said Anders, magic crackling along his drawn staff and his free hand. 

“Either that’s a really powerful mage we’re coming up on, or something nasty from the Fade,” said Malcolm, sword ringing as he drew it. Then he moved up from the rear, taking a position at point, shield out and sword ready, Sten just behind him. “Sten, draw its attention once we see it. That way, I can—”

“Are you going to leave me out of the battle, shem?” asked Fenarel.

Malcolm blinked. “If you want to get its attention, too, feel free. I just need long enough to—”

“Do you not want to fight it?”

“If we’re being honest here, no, not really. It isn’t much fun fighting beasts from the Fade. Rage demons are particularly troublesome and their corpses burst into flame after they die. But that’s not what I need a distraction for. It’s a magic-user, so I can—”

“Hide behind the competent warriors?”

“I was going to say ‘smite it,’ but I think I’ll just let it cast a nasty spell on you first. That way you’ll shut up and let me do my job instead of insulting me.”

“ _Parshaara_ ,” said Sten. “Now is not the time for your petty arguments.” He glared at them both, and then went around the bend.

After a final glare at Fenarel, Malcolm followed, moving into a position to prepare a smite. Fenarel ran to catch up. Líadan sighed and motioned Cammen forward, the two of them careful to stay on the periphery since they would be using ranged attacks. Along with what Líadan recognized as a revenant—a corpse possessed by a demon of pride or desire—were several shades and quite a few skeletons. From the bits and pieces of dilapidated armor still clinging to their bones, Líadan could see that they fought against their _elvhen_ ancestors. Guilt slid through her stomach each time she cut one down, disliking the indignity she was putting them through as she hit them with lightning or the sharp end of her staff. Cammen was doing an excellent job with his arrows, aiming to hinder when he couldn’t be sure of a kill. His choices kept the warriors in the melee safer from surprise attacks, but it denied Cammen the kill he needed to become a full hunter. 

As the skirmish continued, Líadan noticed that Fenarel was finishing off every undead body Cammen managed to injure. Then came the shades, where Cammen would hurt one, then another, then another, and Fenarel would rush over to take it out before Cammen could fire a second, mortal arrow. Líadan frowned at the realization that Fenarel was purposefully keeping Cammen from getting a kill. Surely if Cammen wasn’t meant to be a hunter, Marethari would have told her, so there had to be something else at work. But now wasn’t the time to think about it, because Malcolm, Fenarel, and Sten were busy with shades, and the revenant seemed to have taken notice of the ranged fighters, right around the time when Líadan felt her reserves of mana flagging.

She looked over at the tall creature, her gaze drawn to the glowing red pits that served as its eyes, malevolent under the brim of its helmet. It stuck its sword into the ground and brought its free arm up, and she recognized the move. She closed her eyes, recalling futile lessons given by Marethari years ago, and nearly as futile lessons given by Velanna months ago. Using her connection with the Beyond, she reached out and called forth roots from the earth. As the roots burst from the ground and snagged at her feet, holding her fast, the pull came from the revenant. Líadan stayed upright and held fast, but Cammen was flung onto his back and dragged toward the waiting revenant. To his credit, he didn’t make a sound. Instead, he worked at drawing a dagger from a sheath at his hip. 

As soon as the pulling stopped, Líadan let the roots return to the soil, and with it went the last of her magic. The revenant snatched up his sword once again, and the metal flashed in the mid-morning sunlight as it was drawn upward to deliver the killing blow to Cammen. She hefted her staff, her eyes already measuring the distance between her and Cammen and the revenant and she knew she couldn’t run quickly enough. Sten’s blade was in the midst of cutting a shade in half, Malcolm had a sword-wielding skeleton in a bind, and Fenarel was even further away from the revenant than she was. No magic, no bow, but she did have a finely balanced stave with a sharp end. Her father’s teaching whispered in her mind, lessons taken long ago on a little girl’s whim who’d turned out to be better with a bow, like her mother, than adept with a spear, like her father. But she’d always been able to throw things far and true, and it was no different now. She planted her feet, drew her arm back, and let the staff fly.

It went mostly straight and buried itself in the revenant’s sword-arm shoulder, just above the heart, where she’d aimed. Líadan cursed at being far, far out of practice. The creature dropped the sword, where it landed with a thud in the dirt of the trail. The revenant spun, almost lazily, as it tried to regain its balance. It began to reel when it tried to reach for the injury with the arm carrying the shield, sending it backwards until it pitched over the edge of the cliff that marked the far edge of the trail. Líadan ran forward, drawing her daggers in case the creature managed to catch itself. She stopped at the edge and glanced downward. The revenant bounced once then twice into the sheer thousand-foot cliff face before landing on the rocky ground below. She was fairly certain that it was once again dead, and that her stave, the gift given to her by Riordan, was lost. “Dammit,” she said. “I really liked that staff. And that is... a really long way down.” It was only then that she realized how _far_ the drop was, and how high up she was, and she became more than a little bit dizzy. She stumbled back with one hand behind her, seeking the safety of the ground. 

Another gloved hand grabbed hers, followed by another hand at her waist, pulling her back. “I was wondering how long it’d take you to realize how high up we are,” said Malcolm, not without a good deal of amusement.

She spun to face him, happy to put her back to the drop and step away from it. “You could have _warned_ me.” With some sadness, she noticed that her spin and step inward broke Malcolm’s hold on her waist, and then he’d had to let go of her hand so their wrists wouldn’t twist awkwardly. 

“I was entertaining the thought that you’d gotten over your fear of heights. Well, I was until I saw how pale you were. Then I thought better of it and figured you should be pulled back before you followed the unlucky revenant.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Líadan saw Sten helping Cammen to his feet, with Fenarel glaring from the background, his stare switching between her and Malcolm, and newly calculating. It appeared he was putting it together, and she wondered exactly how much he’d heard from the Wardens’ camp last night. She would have to tell him once they were done on the mountain. Part of her looked forward to it, to ending the pressure from her clan, to having them lose this idea of what they wanted for her being the best for everyone. She returned her gaze to Malcolm, who seemed to be studying her in a serious manner. “What?”

He held up his hands. “Just seeing if you were okay. No need to get all snippy on me, at least not for that.”

“I’m fine. Just upset about my staff. Riordan gave that to me.”

A twinge of loss moved across Malcolm’s face, and then it was quickly replaced by a dark humor, what Líadan had long ago learned to recognize as Malcolm’s way of dealing with loss. She was used to this, the gallows humor and the joking, and preferred it herself. If Malcolm ever chose to cry instead of laugh, she wasn’t sure what she’d do. Probably cry herself, because it would have to be really bad, and really frightening, somewhere beyond the level of facing down an archdemon. Malcolm smirked. “I’ve noticed that you lose or break staffs an awful lot. Is it some latent dislike of being a mage? A subconscious rebellion so pervasive that you have to somehow lose or trash every staff you possess? I mean, you’d lost your staff the first time we stumbled across you.”

She sighed. “I think, technically, _you_ lost it, since you didn’t bother to pick it up and bring it with you. I was unconscious. It can hardly be considered _my_ fault.”

“We didn’t see it around the cavern where we found you. We looked, I swear.”

“Maybe you didn’t look hard enough.”

He rolled his eyes. “Sorry, we were distracted by a dying Dalish elf. Next time, I’ll be sure to concentrate on finding possible loot, instead.” He jerked his head in the direction of Fenarel. “And then maybe he’ll be less inclined to refrain from riddling me with arrows since I cared more about belongings and less about lives.”

“I do regret my actions from when we first met along the Brecilian Passage,” said Fenarel. 

Malcolm turned to face him, clearly puzzled. “Okay, I wasn’t expecting that. Thank—”

Fenarel held up a hand to stop Malcolm. “We should have killed you all, and then allowed Keeper Marethari to heal Líadan herself.”

“Right, because clearly your keeper had the ability to make Grey Wardens and cure people of an illness that only has one cure—which is to become a Warden. Also, there was a sodding _Blight_ , and whether you like it or not, Wardens, shemlen or not, are needed to stop Blights. End of story. So if you’d killed us all, you would have extended the Blight for maybe a hundred years. Ferelden would’ve been wiped out, and many of your people would’ve died. Líadan would have died like Tamlen did, I can guarantee you that.”

“But you are killing her and our people even now. You—”

“Stop,” said Líadan. “You can argue about that, whatever it is, later. You can even have a fistfight if you want, but not while we’re up here on Sundermount where the Veil is as thin as parchment.” She glared at Fenarel and Malcolm each, and then looked at Cammen, who’d stopped dusting himself off to watch the goings-on. “Are you all right?”

He nodded. “I’m fine, thanks to your throw. I don’t remember you using a spear much whenever I was in a hunting party of yours.”

“My father taught me when I was little. Turned out I was better with a bow and blades than I was with any sort of spear.” She sighed, again feeling sorrow for the loss of many things, from her father to the gifted staff. “I know I mentioned it before, but I really liked that staff.”

“Should we go back?” asked Anders. “Considering what else could be up here, you shouldn’t be unarmed. I mean, you could still use magic, but the staff helps focus it, especially when it comes to combat. You can cast over a wider area and it makes your spells more powerful.”

Líadan fingered the hilts of her daggers. “No need to turn back. I was a Dalish hunter before I was a mage, and I never stopped being one. We continue onward.” She didn’t bother looking behind her to see if the other followed. Eventually, she heard footsteps at her back, signaling that the others had indeed chosen to follow. All of them remained behind, no one saying a word to her. An hour passed in total silence, and then Malcolm and Fenarel were at it, Cammen keeping as quiet as Sten, and Anders intermittently trying to break in between the bickering. Another hour and they passed through two worn stone pillars into what Líadan recognized as a graveyard. She paused, astonished at seeing the places were her ancestors had entered _uthenera_. This was also the resting place of the _Enasalin’abelas_ , those last arcane warriors who stood against the Tevinter Imperium to protect the final resting places of their sleeping elders. They had been killed by Tevinter hands, and so had the elders as they slept. 

“The Veil is incredibly thin here,” said Anders. “Even compared to elsewhere on the mountain, this is thin. Andraste’s knickers, what happened up here?”

“Shemlen,” said Fenarel, disgust twisting his features.

Líadan glared at him and sighed before providing Anders with a better, more specific, answer. “The Tevinter Imperium. This was one of the final resting places of the _elvhen_ elders. This is a place they’d go to enter _uthenera_ , the eternal sleep. Even after the rest of _elvhenan_ had fled, and the major battles over, the warriors appointed to guard the elders remained here to protect them. They were slaughtered, and so were the elders. This is the result.”

“Why would the elves have a graveyard where the Veil is so thin?” asked Sten.

“It wasn’t thin before the last battles. No one could have foreseen what Tevinter and _Elvhenan_ took during those end times to sunder the Veil as they did.”

Fenarel kicked at grass, barely missing one of the stone markers. “The shemlen using blood magic is what happened.”

“So did the elves,” said Líadan. “Both sides were guilty of that.”

Her statement made Fenarel spin to face her, shoulders stiff with anger. “You would exonerate the shemlen for what they did to our people? Have you become a _seth’lin_ , Líadan, to be a shemlen apologist?”

Creators, if there was any time in her life when she wished she was a keeper or a First, it would be now, because he wouldn’t be questioning her words as he was. She was _remembering_ , she was doing what keepers and Firsts were supposed to do—remember, even if it were things they, as a people, would rather forget. “It’s part of our history whether we like it or not, you know. We don’t get to pick and choose what’s already happened. Forgetting it would allow it to happen again, and I, for one, would like to avoid such things.” She stepped closer to him, pushing him so that his back bumped into one of the stone markers. “And, Fenarel, _ma dirth emma seth’lin sa ir melana, ma halam_.” Threat given, she made sure to thump him hard on the shoulder as she walked past him.

Much of the awe from earlier had disappeared after the confrontation, and she kept her eyes forward, no longer lingering on the graves. There was an outcropping just after the rows of grave markers, and a granite altar stood on the outcropping. Resting on top of the altar was the blue-green light of Mythal. Líadan halted just in front of the altar, finding it strange that this place would be maintained while none of the other statues had been set up, not even Fen’Harel. Granted, neglecting Mythal’s shrines could mean incurring Mythal’s wrath, which in turn meant being struck from the earth as if you’d never been alive, so she could see the reasoning behind keeping up with this shrine. Still, a bit strange that her clan seemed to be neglecting the gods, all except for Mythal. 

The air also felt... odd. Almost like it should be familiar, but just different enough that she could sense that it was off, like being in the Beyond when she dreamed at night. Almost like she should be watching for _Asha’belannar_ in some form. Líadan scanned in every direction and saw nothing, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that _Asha’belannar_ had touched this place.

That in mind, she said a fast prayer: “Mythal, all mother, protector of the People, watch over us, for the one who hunts us is without mercy. Save us from the darkness, as you did before, and we will sing your name to the heavens.”

The wind picked up and the flame flared brightly before returning to its normal luminosity. Líadan shivered, and felt no comfort. She would’ve much preferred an altar to Sylaise, given the choice. Mythal, while associated with protection, never really brought a feeling of comfort in that protection, mostly because Mythal herself was dangerous. Yet her sister Sylaise always meant comfort, warmth, and home—all the things Líadan wished for while standing in the path of _Asha’belannar_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish Translations:
> 
> -Líadan: “Ma dirth emma seth’lin sa ir melana, ma halam.”  
> “If you call me thinblood one more time, you are finished.”


	78. Chapter 78

**Chapter 78**

“Vir Melana: the Way of Time

Receive the gifts of life with patience.

Respect the power of regret;

Know its embrace as poison, and reject it.

That is my Way.”

—excerpt from _The Charge of Sylaise the Hearthkeeper_

**Líadan**

Admittedly, this might not have been one of her best ideas. Considering her long list of not-so-bright ideas, that was saying something. They’d left Sten and Anders together outside the entrance of the cavern—also not one of her best ideas, but it couldn’t be helped—and ventured into the cavern where Marethari had said would be relics, and maybe a varterral. Thus far, the cavern had yet to yield relics, a varterral, or even so much as a hint that it held either. However, they had run into plenty of dank cavern dwelling fauna, a wonderful accompaniment to Malcolm and Fenarel’s constant sniping at one another. The entire time, the two had yet to directly confront each other or say exactly what they were sniping about, but it didn’t take the smartest person to figure it out. 

Even Cammen was rolling his eyes as he walked in the rear with Líadan. Cammen, of all people, was being one of the mature ones. An apprentice hunter who’d not yet taken the _vallaslin_ or bonded, and yet he was acting more of an adult than the two supposed adults at the front of their little hunting party. Líadan had to admit it was kind of amusing to see how well Malcolm and Fenarel fought alongside one another in combat despite their differences. They were nearly as well matched as combat partners as Malcolm was with Alistair. After their third skirmish while climbing the mountain trail, Fenarel had spit in the dirt, and then grudgingly declared that the shem fought as well as a Dalish warrior, and then promptly qualified it with, “...when not being a coward.”

Líadan had withheld a sigh, deciding that even though Fenarel was insisting on calling Malcolm a shem, she’d take what she could get for now while on Sundermount. But come their return to the clan at the base of the mountain, she’d have to clear the air. In the meantime, that decision meant enduring the lengthy arguments that occurred between the two men. Definitely not one of her best ideas in allowing Fenarel to accompany them on their trip that day. 

She pressed her lips together in a thin line to keep from shouting at them, and turned to Cammen instead, determined to be nice. “Did you notice that Fenarel was taking all your kills?”

Cammen gave a slight shrug. “I was aiming more for disabling than killing.”

“I know, because the kill shots just weren’t popping up at first and you were opting on the side of safety for the hunters in the melee. That shows skill, even if it means you haven’t gotten a pelt.” She frowned. “Or skin or whatever decidedly gross thing it would be in this case. But that doesn’t matter. There were plenty of times when you had time to make the kill shot and Fenarel stepped in and got the kill before you could get the shot off. Is there something between you two that I’m not aware of?”

Cammen was silent for a moment, his fingers plying at the taut string of his bow. Then he sighed and replied in a nearly inaudible voice, “I think he was wanting to bond with Gheyna, but she turned him down. What I can figure is that he must’ve thought if I remained an apprentice and a child, she would eventually give up on me and turn to him. But that doesn’t make sense now, since he’s trying to...” he trailed off and slid a glance over at her.

She rolled her eyes this time. “I know.”

“You won’t do it, will you?”

“No. Even if I were to stay with the clan—which I won’t—I would not bond with him.” Honestly, she had no idea why men sought to put down others whom they assumed were their competition. It never impressed the woman involved and generally made the male trying to do the impressing look like a complete idiot. She’d never noticed Malcolm being that sort, but everyone, male or female, tended to get defensive when challenged. And Fenarel _was_ the sort. She’d seen him be an ass all through their childhood, and after seeing what he’d done with Cammen, and finding out the reason why, that only solidified her feelings of having made the right decision in rejecting him. The only thing Fenarel had over Malcolm was that he was Dalish. Every other quality she could think of to look for in a companion she found in Malcolm. She’d learned to get past the Dalish thing, for the most part, and the Mahariel would too, or they would lose her entirely. That realization still kind of hurt, however much she tried to prepare herself for the loss.

“Is it because of the human?”

“It’s because Fenarel is a prat.”

A smirk formed on Cammen’s lips. “Not arguing that one.” He paused, studying the two men walking far ahead of them. “There’s something between you and Malcolm, isn’t there?”

She stiffened slightly, and willed herself to keep walking forward. If she could not face this questioning from Cammen, she’d never be able to face the rest of the clan. “What if there was?”

“I think you are a Grey Warden and not subject to the same rules and expectations as other Dalish are. If what you say is true, you cannot return to the clan and live as one of us. And no Dalish, unless they were also a Warden, would want to live amongst the shemlen as you must. Mostly, though, if he makes you feel the same way I do when I am with Gheyna, I don’t think it’s anyone’s business. I’ve had to stay away from her for so long because I cannot seem to get this kill and it’s killing me inside. If I could choose to stop feeling like I do, I would. But I cannot, and so I continue doing my best to become a full hunter so that I can be with her. I wouldn’t want anyone else to be trapped in the same dilemma, feeling and not able to express it or live it. You are unhappy enough away from the clan, so I say take what happiness you can, and be with him if he makes you happy.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “But you are still part of our clan, even if you do not live with us. If he hurts you—”

“Do you _really_ think you could take him?” Líadan didn’t even think Fenarel stood much of a chance. She’d seen both men fight, and unless Malcolm held back out of some strange sense of honor, Fenarel wouldn’t fare too well. It wasn’t like Malcolm was invincible—there’d been plenty of wrestling matches and fistfights between him and Alistair where Alistair had come out on top, and Creators forbid if Sten ever decided he couldn’t take Malcolm’s chatter anymore and chose to beat it out of him—but his being taller, stronger, and the added bonus of being gifted with Grey Warden stamina gave him too many edges over Fenarel for it to be a fair fight if it came to it. Which, she suspected, it soon would, whether she liked it or not.

Cammen grinned. “No. But I think a punch to the jaw would make my feelings of disapproval known all the same. Might break my hand, though.”

She returned the grin, feeling proud of him in a small way. “When did you get so grown up? Do you have invisible _vallaslin_?” She reached out and mussed his hair, remembering the little boy, five years younger than the rest of them and not yet apprenticed, desperately trying to keep up with the hunter apprentices.

“I think I’m ready to ask Keeper Marethari for them.” He batted her hand away and set to fixing the hair she’d messed up.

“I think you are, too. In fact—”

A strangled shout from the cavern ahead of them interrupted her, one with a particular lilt and shriek to it that she recognized. “Giant spiders ahead,” she said to Cammen, drawing her daggers at the same time. “Several of them, most likely.”

Cammen nocked an arrow, and then gave her a curious look. “How do you know?”

“Malcolm only screams like that when they’re around.” Then she raced ahead to save her love from the big, scary spiders. 

She jumped into the fray as soon as she entered the cavern, while she heard Cammen stop in the entrance to make the most effective use of his bow. Since their time in the Deep Roads, she, Malcolm, and the other Wardens had become good at dispatching large numbers of the overgrown spiders quickly and efficiently, with minimum fuss and spider innards left on their armor. It was over within ten minutes, with Fenarel informing Cammen that in no way was a giant spider the kind of kill that would qualify him as a full hunter.

“I don’t know,” said Malcolm. “I mean, he didn’t even scream. That has to count for something. You screamed a little. I heard you.”

“I did no such thing, shem. I am not afraid of spiders like you are.”

“No one is afraid of spiders like Malcolm is,” Líadan said. “His fear of spiders is unmatched by even the smallest child.”

“You’ve got spider guts on your face.” Malcolm pointed for emphasis. “Kind of near your mouth. Hope they aren’t poisonous.”

She forced herself to react calmly, lest Malcolm have his revenge, and pulled a rag from her pouch to use to clean her face, and then her daggers. When she looked up, she saw something moving from the shadows behind Malcolm, growing large and impossibly larger as it got closer. Creators, she had never seen a spider that large. She wasn’t afraid of them, but this one made her quake on the inside. She pocketed the rag and drew the dagger she’d put away.

His eyes widened. “Hey, come on, I was just pointing it out. I couldn’t very well let you go walking around all day with spider guts on your face, could I?”

“Malcolm,” she said slowly, “walk towards me right now.” Behind her, she heard the creak of Cammen drawing his bow.

Malcolm gave her a strange look, but recognized the warning in her voice and moved toward her. “Fine, but the least you could do is put away your—”

“Elgar’nan save us!” shouted Fenarel, who had apparently just sighted the spider.

Malcolm whipped around, bringing his sword to bear, and then stumbled backward, his face ashen. “Andraste have mercy! How are we supposed to kill a spider like that? We can’t cut it in half or step on it. No one’s feet are that big!”

“Kill it like you would a high dragon? It’s about that size,” said Líadan. “No tail to run up, though, so that could be a problem. Maybe a leg? Maybe get on a high rock and jump?”

“I’m not touching that thing if I can help it, much less climb it, and neither should any of you,” said Malcolm. “Those fangs are the same size as I am!”

She nodded. “And fuzzy, no less.” Since Fenarel had his attention on the monstrously-sized spider, Líadan glanced over at Malcolm. Sweat had broken out on his skin and his fingers worked at the leather grip of his sword. He looked fairly close to fainting and she couldn’t much blame him, considering they were now facing what would pretty much be his worst nightmare.

An arrow whizzed through the air and buried itself in one of the spider’s eyes. It reared up on its four back legs before plunging forward toward the source of the threat.

“Pretend it’s a high dragon, pretend it’s a nice, not-spider-like high dragon that breathes nice fire and doesn’t have poisoning, man-crushing fangs and all will be well,” Malcolm said under his breath. Then he brought his shield up to a proper guard and moved forward to intercept the spider before it reached the lighter-armored archer in the rear. “You don’t scare—well, okay, you scare me, but come at me anyway before I run away screaming!’

Fenarel, taking the cue from Malcolm, stepped into the fight as well, and the two of them alternated who held the spider’s attention as Cammen continued pelting it with arrows. Líadan tried the root spell she’d used earlier, but the roots she summoned were thin and weak and did nothing to hold the spider in place or even hamper it in the least. Her strongest spell, and her fallback, was lightning, but without a staff, she had to get closer. She tucked her daggers away and looked around the room for a ledge or something, but the space inside was completely clear. Fenarel ducked away from a stomping spider leg, and then Malcolm rolled aside as another leg went for him. Líadan ran up while the spider was occupied with the two sword and shield warriors and let loose a barrage of lightning from her fingers. Then she had to dash as the spider shuddered, recovered, and then headed for her. Malcolm and Fenarel renewed their attacks and taunts on the spider, managing to claim its attention before it could get to her. 

She felt absolutely useless. Without a staff, her attacks weren’t strong enough, she had no bow to use other ranged attacks, and her daggers brought her in too close when she was this lightly armored. She would be a hindrance in the battle and not any help at all. Cammen managed to hit its eyes two more times before he risked too much of the spider’s attention and had to pause to let Malcolm and Fenarel distract it again. Fenarel dashed under the spider’s abdomen and managed to score a hit before skittering back out the front, just below its fangs. It snapped out toward the elf, but Malcolm rolled underneath to poke at it again right as Cammen let loose another arrow. 

The arrow plunged into the spider’s last intact eye so deeply that Líadan could barely see the green fletching at the end of the it. The spider stopped in mid-attack, shuddered, and then listed to the side as it began to fall. Unfortunately, it fell in the same direction Malcolm had been running to get out from under it, and collapsed right on top of him. Cammen ran past Líadan, dagger out, and leapt onto the spider, burying the dagger deep into the spider’s head. It twitched one more time, and then remained still.

Líadan’s shout for Malcolm lodged in her throat as she bolted toward the spider. Fenarel stood to one side, dusting himself off, and Cammen slid slowly off the spider. Líadan pushed at the spider’s abdomen, trying to get it off Malcolm. She couldn’t hear him saying anything, and if something would make him speak, being trapped under a spider certainly would. She’d welcome his complaints as long as it meant he wasn’t _dead_. “Malcolm!” she finally managed to yell, but there was no response. She wondered if this was how he felt when she’d been trapped in the cave-in and wasn’t responding. But this was a spider, not a pile of rock, and they should be able to moveit. Her eyes flicked over to the two elves standing nearby. “A little help?”

Cammen stopped staring at the spider’s head and quickly strode over, while Fenarel groused a bit before coming to help. They set their backs against the enormous abdomen and used their legs to push, but the spider’s carcass barely budged. They needed more people. Líadan looked at Fenarel, who was a faster runner than her or Cammen. “I need you to run outside the cavern and get Sten and Anders.” Sten would give them enough strength to move this thing, and Anders could repair any damage. He was a good healer, a _very_ good healer, and she refused to believe that Malcolm was dead, even as quiet as he was.

Fenarel’s expression immediately darkened and his jaw set in preparation to argue. “What about the varterral? What if it appears? Bringing the qunari and the other shem here could very well draw it out.”

Líadan ignored the tightness in her chest and focused on anger instead. “It hasn’t appeared yet! And if it’s supposed to protect our people, you’d think it would make itself known when elves were in danger, wouldn’t you?”

His eyes darted over to where Malcolm was trapped—or worse—under the spider. “Maybe it’s the shem’s presence that stopped it!”

“If that were even remotely true, it would have attacked when we entered this place. If you want to argue, we can argue later. Go for now. Go fetch the others before it’s too late.”

A final scowl, and he ran for the entrance. Líadan lay flush with the ground, her right cheek pressed into the dirt, and peered where she thought Malcolm would be, worming her hand underneath the spider and searching for him. Her hand encountered another and grabbed it, and relief surged through her when it squeezed back. “Thank the Creators. He’s alive for now.” But she didn’t see how anyone could survive for an extended length of time trapped by the weight of that spider, and hoped the others would get here soon.

Cammen’s footsteps sounded around her, and then on the other side of the spider. “I think I can see him.”

“I’m not letting go of his hand to come look.’

“I know. I wouldn’t expect you to.” There was more shuffling, and the spider’s carcass shifted a tiny bit. “I can see his face. He’s breathing. I think you can let go of his hand if you want to come to this side. His other hand is here and I’m not going to hold it. And it isn’t because he’s human, either. He’s just not my type. My preference has more curves.”

Líadan laughed in spite of herself, gave Malcolm’s hand another squeeze before letting go, jumped up, and trotted to the opposite side of the spider. There, she saw Malcolm’s face, at first so slack that her heart dropped, and then his eyelids started to flutter and she breathed a sigh of relief. 

Cammen put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, at first hesitant, and then confident. “See, told you. I’ll go check for Fenarel and the others, just in case more spiders popped down or something.” He brightened a little. “And if they did, maybe they ate him.” Then he was off.

She nodded, barely paying him any attention as she lay on the ground and reached out for Malcolm. Her arm wasn’t long enough to touch his cheek, and she couldn’t quite reach his hand. But at least this time she could see his face. He had a couple scrapes across his forehead, and most of his skin was smeared with dirt, mud, and some kind of foul matter that most likely had once been on the inside of the spider. “Malcolm, can you hear me?”

His eyes opened, blinked rapidly, focused for a moment, and then quickly shut. “Please tell me this isn’t happening.” His voice was weaker than she liked to hear, and had a wheezy component to it that alarmed her.

“What isn’t happening? You’re _alive_ and that’s good because you very easily could’ve been dead from the—”

“Please don’t say it. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. I am trying very hard right now to not think about the fact that there is a _monstrosity of a spider_ _on top of me right now_. I think I’m dying from fright. This is, I think, my worst nightmare. Maybe I’m already dead and in the Void and this is my eternal punishment. I can’t reach you, I’m trapped under a spider, and—” His words broke off into a wheeze as he tried to catch breath that didn’t seem to be there. “Wait, I think I’ve got your hand now.”

Frowning, Líadan glanced over at Malcolm’s gloved hand to find him clutching not her hand, like he thought, but a part of the spider. “Um, that’s not me.” She wondered if he’d taken a blow to the head, to mistake the spider for her, or if her hands felt that branch-like. “That’s the spider. You’re very sweetly clutching its pedipalp.”

Malcolm immediately let go, letting out a squeak with it, and his eyes closed again. “I think I’d like to be dead now. Please, yes. Sooner the better.”

The note of wheezing had grown deeper, and she realized that if the others didn’t arrive soon, Malcolm’s wish might just be granted. “You can’t die like this. It would be horribly embarrassing. You’d never live it down all through eternity.” Then she realized that she had no idea what humans believed happened to them after they died. “If that’s how it works for humans. I don’t know what you believe.”

“Oh, we’re told that after we die, if we’re good little Andrastians, we’ll be brought to the side of the Maker. Considering what I’ve said about the Maker—” He stopped to wheeze again, and then said, “I believe he’ll have some words to say to me, and none of them very kind.” He paused. “Also, this would be a rather embarrassing way to go. Then again, I can always tell my mother—both of them—that yes, the spiders were out to get me the _entire time_ and I was right and she was wrong. Take that, Teyrna! Take that, Fiona!”

Líadan figured that Malcolm had either hit his head fairly hard, or he was going more than a bit mental over his current predicament. And the wheezing kept getting worse, and while she found slight amusement in the situation, it would be far more amusing and far less alarming if Malcolm was breathing properly. “You should probably save your breath.”

“If I stop talking, I’ll start _thinking_ , and that means remembering exactly where I am right now, which is under a hulking monstrosity of a spider. Seriously, death in the Deep Roads never looked so good.”

Deeming the risk worth it and ignoring the wiry hairs on the spider—while Líadan was no arachnophobe like Malcolm, a beast this large was enough to give anyone the creeps—she pushed herself forward and under just enough to touch Malcolm’s fingers. “Just look at me and think of something not-spider-related.”

His eyes opened and they were starkly blue in midst of the dirt and grime on his face. “I can try.”

She thought she saw a tiny smile, and then noticed the faraway look to his eyes that also seemed familiar. “Creators, not _that_. What is wrong with you?”

“Seemed a better option than imagining, you know, reality.” His expression became dreamy again. “Yup, far better.”

Líadan closed her eyes in exasperation, and focused on that instead of the wheezing. Then she heard footsteps in the dirt closer to the cavern’s entrance. “The others are back.” She made to get up, but Malcolm held fast to her hand.

“Don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere, but they’ll need everyone to move this thing.”

“Have Anders use the root trick he learned from Velanna to lift it and I can crawl out.”

“That’s actually a really good idea.” However, she wasn’t convinced that Malcolm would be able to crawl out under his own power. Sten would probably have to drag him out, and he’d never live that down, either of them.

He chuckled, but it sounded more like a cough. “I have those occasionally.” He took another shallow breath. “You should let me show you the other ones sometime.”

A pained cough came from behind her, and Cammen said, “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. But you shouldn’t let Fenarel hear him say such things, especially when he’s in such a compromised position and injured.”

Malcolm scowled. “I can take him.”

Líadan raised an eyebrow. 

“Okay, not right now, I’ll admit. I’m not at my best. I’m almost at the point of gibbering, to be honest.”

“That is a fine specimen of spider. Even in the jungles of Seheron, I have not seen one of their kind so large.” Sten knelt next to Líadan and surveyed underneath the spider’s carcass. “I believe I can move him, as you ask.”

“I’m certainly not hanging out down here for the scintillating view,” said Malcolm. He took a breath to say something else, but it caught halfway, and his face paled under the grime as he struggled for air. 

The panic that had faded within Líadan surged forward. “Anders, we need to get this thing off him. Can you do what he says? I can’t do it. I’m not strong enough.” It was one of the few times in her life when she’d wished to have stronger rather than weaker magic.

“I think so, but Sten should get ready to pull him out once the spider is up. I’m not sure how long the roots will hold, and if the spider falls on him a second time, I don’t think he’d live through it.” Anders lifted his staff and closed his eyes in concentration as he summoned the necessary magic to power the spell. 

Líadan felt the familiar tingle along her skin and heard roots cracking through the earth. She moved away as Sten went prone in front of Malcolm, both his arms out and one already grabbing the human by the free wrist. The ground shook and the roots burst out, hurling the spider’s body upwards. Sten reacted almost immediately, hauling Malcolm forward with the already-grasped arm, and then snagging his other wrist and pulling him out from under the shadow of the spider. Then he informed Anders that it was safe to remove the spell, and the roots withdrew, dropping the spider to the cavern floor once again. Dust fell from the ceiling far above as the tremors faded.

“A shemlen knows a keeper’s spell?” Fenarel asked from the entryway, and glared at Líadan. “I suppose this was your doing?”

She moved her gaze away from Malcolm just long enough to inform Fenarel exactly how she felt. “I didn’t teach him. It was another Dalish Warden.”

Fenarel scoffed. “You are either Dalish or you are a Grey Warden. One cannot be both.”

“Well, considering that human and elven physiology are primarily the same,” said Anders as he knelt next to Malcolm, whom Sten had placed flat on the ground, “and that humans can be both human and Grey Wardens, I think it’s safe to say an elf can be Dalish and a Grey Warden. One nature doesn’t supplant another, at least not in this case.” He’d set aside his staff and his hands were held just above Malcolm’s chest. “Oh, your ribcage is _not_ happy with you. Or your left lung.” He frowned at Malcolm’s continued silence as he hovered on the edge of consciousness, and then looked over at Líadan. “I’m going to need help getting this cuirass and chainmail off to do proper work. We should also see to something about wiping off his face. I don’t want him swallowing any of it, be it mud or mashed bits of spider. Throwing up before, during, or just after healing would either make my work harder or undo it entirely.”

She nodded, and then helped Anders with armor removal. They undid buckles and straps and Anders propped up Malcolm as Líadan lifted away the cuirass then the more troublesome chainmail. The gambeson and linen shirt underneath were easier to remove. As Anders attended to a chest that seemed to be made of one livid bruise, he told her to clean what she could from Malcolm’s exposed skin. She grabbed her flask and the rag she’d used earlier on her daggers, folding it so that the cleanest part was on the outside. Then she dampened the rag and set to cleaning as gently as she could. Malcolm seemed partially aware of the goings-on, but didn’t respond at first, his lips more of a dusky blue than she ever wanted to see. It was another lesson she remembered from learning the basics of healing, that the lips would pale and become blue when the body wasn’t getting enough air. “Anders,” she said, unable to keep the panic from showing in her voice.

“I know, I know. Just... there!” The magic aura around his hands flared brightly for a moment, and then dimmed before gutting out entirely. He sat back on his haunches as Malcolm took a gasping breath. “That will have to do for now. His lung is no longer punctured and his ribs are no longer pressing on them, but they’re very weakly knitted for now. Give it some time and I should be able to finish the healing. That root spell took too much out of me for me to complete this in one go.”

The hand holding the rag stilled in its movements. “But you can heal him?”

“Sure. By the time we’re climbing down this mountain, he won’t even know he’d been hurt in the first place. I’m just that good.”

“I’ll not know except for the bloody _nightmares_ ,” Malcolm said in almost a mumble, and then gave a weak smile. “But thank you.” His attention moved to Cammen, who had wandered between the injured human and marveling at the dead spider. “Nice kill. I’m very sure it will totally impress your girl. I hear giving them dead spiders is the new thing. Highly sought after. The other girls will be so jealous, you won’t know what you do with yourself.”

Cammen laughed. “ _Ma serannas_. Thank you, I think.” He turned and gave the spider a calculating look. “Not sure how I’ll skin it, though.”

“It’s fuzzy,” said Malcolm, “but I’m not so sure it has a pelt, so to speak.”

Líadan frowned at him. “Stop talking. You’ve got spider guts on your face.”

He paled, and it had nothing to do with his injuries. The bravado he’d been showing quickly drifted away, and now reminded of exactly what’d just happened, he kept his eyes away from the spider. Líadan finished wiping off the grime and aforementioned spider guts. Then she fished out a second rag from her pouch, and made a final swipe, letting her fingers linger on his skin, relieved that he’d come through this. Later, she knew she’d laugh and tease, but for now, the tension of him coming close to death was too newly vanquished for her to be amused. Her thumb brushed over his lips, and before she knew what she was doing, her mouth followed suit. The kiss was gentle, but communicated the relief she felt at his being safe, and the love she felt for him being _him_. 

“Well, that’s just too cute for words,” said Anders. “Almost as good as having a kitten. Give me another hour and I can have him ready for more interesting things, if you want.”

Líadan broke away and gave the other Warden a mock glare. “ _Anders_.”

He shrugged. “I was just offering.” Then his eyes flicked over to his right, drawing Líadan’s attention there.

Fenarel stood just behind Cammen, arms crossed, and his fiery glare was anything but mocking.


	79. Chapter 79

**Chapter 79**

“They are bound by their being.

 _Asit tal-eb_. It is to be.

For the world and the self are one.

Existence is a choice.

A self of suffering, brings only suffering to the world.

It is a choice, and we can refuse it.”

—an excerpt from _The Qun_ , Canto 4

**Líadan**

For what seemed to be an eternity, Fenarel said nothing. Then the anger flushed his face red and his arms unfolded, one hand curling into a fist and the other pointing in accusation. “So I heard correctly on my patrol last night, after all. _This_ is what you forsake your people for? To be the shem’s whore?”

Líadan remained where she knelt, shocked that Fenarel would accuse her of being such a thing, and fighting the urge to rectify that mistake of his by clawing his eyes out. She’d expected accusations of betraying her people, threats of exile, things of that nature, but hadn’t thought any of them would be so personal. Though being named and made an exile would hurt more deeply, it was something she’d been prepared to face. To be named a whore felt like being punched in the gut, momentarily taking away her ability to speak, an entirely visceral reaction.

“Anders,” Malcolm said with a deceptive mildness, “please finish healing me so I can kill him.”

“No, if anyone gets to kill him, that’s me.” Líadan slowly rose to her feet and met Fenarel’s steady gaze, entirely ready to add to his already bad day. “It’s worse than you think.”

His mouth twitched. “What? How is it worse? You mean it isn’t just him you’re giving it to, _arvhen’din_? Is it for both shems? Maybe the qunari, too?”

From where he stood by the cavern’s wall, Sten snorted in disdain, effectively communicating his thoughts on the possibilities of cavorting with an elf.

Líadan tamped down the indignation that desperately tried to flare into full-blown anger. “No. Most assuredly no.” She almost told Sten that she meant no offense, but remembered that Sten wouldn’t particularly care either way. “I—”

“How can you call her that?” asked Cammen, stepping in between her and Fenarel. “She’s done more to help the clan than you have.” Somehow, Líadan wasn’t surprised that Cammen fixated on the fact that Fenarel had called her an exile, and not on the part where he called her a whore. It made sense, in a way. A whore was a shame to herself and her people, while an exile was no longer even one of the People. Far better to be a Dalish whore than not Dalish at all, it seemed. 

“What, by leaving it?” asked Fenarel. “Yes, of course that’s been a great help to the clan.”

Cammen pointed at the spider. “She was willing to help me become a full hunter instead of sabotaging me. She acted as more of a clanmate than you did, even though she’s a Grey Warden.”

“She would help children bond! It’s sickening.”

After all Cammen went through, Fenarel named him a child still? “They aren’t children!” Líadan stepped out from behind Cammen, careful not to stand in front of him, since that would certainly hamper her argument. “Cammen is ready for his _vallaslin_ , and so is Gheyna.”

Fenarel crossed his arms again. “That is for the keeper or a First to say, not you.”

She rolled her eyes. “And yet this morning you wanted me to remain with the Mahariel and become Keeper Marethari’s First. Which is it? Am I an outsider who knows nothing of our ways, or am I someone who could be a First if she so chose? Even though I do not become a First, that doesn’t mean the abilities I have will just disappear. I am no less capable of making that assessment than I was before.”

“And yet you would debase yourself with a shemlen?” He motioned violently toward Malcolm. “You are a Dalish elf who carries the gift. You should know better. You should act better. Your clan deserves better.”

She regarded him silently for a moment, her fingers itching to physically make her point, but given the situation, she had to opt for words. “And who would my clan be, Fenarel? The Mahariel?” He nodded, and she smiled, small and rueful. “My clan isn’t the Mahariel any longer. It’s the Grey Wardens. The Mahariel will always be my mother clan, but it is no longer the clan I belong to or the clan where I will live out the rest of my life. I’ve realized this, and you and the others have yet to catch up to the same realization. Don’t worry. It will come.”

Fenarel spat in the dirt. “Oh, I know. _You_ certainly did.” 

Suddenly, Líadan didn’t much care that they could be waking a varterral, attracting the interest of more giant spiders, or angering spirits from the Beyond. She only cared about shutting Fenarel up and shoving those smug words right back into his mouth with as much force as she could muster. So she pushed past Cammen and leapt at Fenarel because lighting was too good for him. He deserved scrapes and bruises that would sting longer than a jolt of magical lightning and possibly lose the use of his eyes and he didn’t really need all of his teeth, did he? No, she didn’t think so. The impact knocked them both backwards and into the dirt on the cavern floor. She was vaguely aware of shouting, but didn’t pay much attention to it, since she had a self-righteous prig to beat up. Líadan’s knee landed on Fenarel’s solar plexus and, as he gasped for breath, she drew her fist back for her first true strike. As she shifted to throw it, someone caught it in an iron grip. Her head whipped around to confront the new person who also deserved a fist to the face and found herself struggling against Sten.

“Enough, _kadan_ ,” he said, not loosening his hold on her fist. “You have proven your point.”

She narrowed her eyes in thought. “No. No, can’t say that I have.” Then she turned to Fenarel again—who was still trying to regain control of his breathing—this time while readying her left fist.

Sten sighed. “ _Parshaara_.” He wrapped his large arm around her middle and pulled her bodily off Fenarel, lifting her off the other elf as easily as one would pluck a blade of grass.

This was one of the times Líadan wished they didn’t have a well-meaning qunari with them. A qunari who was powerful and muscular enough to be stronger than any two Wardens put together, perhaps even three. “Sten. _Sten_. He’s asking for it! You heard what he said!” Her fingers pried hopelessly at Sten’s arm. Was it even _made_ of flesh or just some sort of metal? Maybe he was a golem like Shale. That would certainly explain how well he and Shale got along. Sten didn’t answer, and he didn’t let go. Líadan glanced over at Anders and Malcolm, a request for help on her lips, but she didn’t bother to make it when she saw that Anders had put Malcolm in a paralysis spell, presumably to keep him from getting up and re-injuring himself in the process. 

“We came here to compete two tasks, did we not?” asked Sten. “One has been completed. The other has not, and there is a cavern left to explore beyond this one. You and I will go while the mage heals Malcolm, and while these two elves procure their evidence of the apprentice’s kill.”

She was loathe to admit it, but Sten had a point. “Fine.” She huffed, and then asked, “Will you let me go now?”

“No.”

Apparently, Sten had paid far more attention to her tendencies than she suspected, and knew that she’d most likely go after Fenarel as soon as she was free. “I promise I won’t hit him.”

“No.”

“Or assault him in any way for at least an hour.”

“Make it two and I will free you.”

Líadan glanced over at Malcolm, whom Anders had released from paralysis. He broke off his glower at Fenarel long enough to give her a slight nod of agreement. Yes, they’d gang on up the offender later. Then she looked at Fenarel, being helped from the ground by Cammen, who was glowering nearly as darkly as Malcolm. She sighed again. “I give you my word I won’t assault him for at least two hours.”

“Then we will explore the next cavern.” With those words, Sten moved his arm from around her and let go of her hand. 

It took her a moment to properly regain her footing since Sten had kept her a few inches off the ground. Then she checked her daggers and, grumbling under her breath, headed for the last cavern. From what the keeper had told her, there was a tunnel they had to go through before the caves opened up again, but when they reached the last cave, there were supposed to be relics left from the last battles _Elvhenan_ had with the Tevinter Imperium. Marethari had last visited this cavern back when Merrill was still with the clan, and had yet to return. Why Marethari didn’t bring a group of hunters along with her and Merrill, Líadan couldn’t figure. It would have made it easier to gather the relics the first time up here. 

She also didn’t want to admit how much self-control it was costing her not to run back into the other chamber and resume Fenarel’s beat down.

They walked in silence for a time, and then Sten said, “I do not understand.”

Líadan brushed her hair out of her eyes and kept her attention on the path ahead. “You don’t understand what?”

“Why you became so angry at the other elf. You are not a whore. I do not claim to understand mating rituals and customs amongst elves or humans, but I have never seen an exchange of money. What he said was not true, therefore it should not have affected you so deeply that you became uncontrolled.”

“You aren’t a woman. You wouldn’t understand.” She almost added something about money being exchanged for the act wasn’t quite required for a person to be a whore, but since the qunari tended to believe in the technicalities of things, he would claim otherwise. It wasn’t worth the effort of the argument, because he would default to the very definition of a word, and nothing of a word’s connotation. It was bad enough she’d heard rumors and murmurs of being the prince’s whore while in Denerim. It wasn’t something she wanted to experience while amongst people who were supposed to be her own. Then again, by her own words, they weren’t her people any longer. Instead, it was the Grey Wardens who were, and who stood up for her.

“I believe that is what I said. The apprentice also did complete a worthy kill to become a full hunter and an adult of the clan, at least in my understanding of the Dalish rules. The other things the elf said also were not true, and yet they angered you. Why?”

She slipped one of her daggers from its sheath, the weight and balance of Duncan’s blade—another gift from Riordan—immediately familiar in her hand. “Because some of what he said were things I’d already thought myself. I did leave my clan. Sure, I was forced to because of the taint, but I did _leave_. And I will leave again, once our task here is done, but that isn’t the worst part. Fenarel is right to call me an exile, a betrayer of my people, because I fell in love with a human.”

“Yet the human is of your clan. Did you not just say that? So it would follow that it is acceptable to behave in this manner.”

“That isn’t how Fenarel sees it.” And not how most Dalish would see it, either, she knew.

“Then it is his own fault for not seeing the world as it is. ‘To be fooled by the world is unfortunate: by oneself, deadly.’ That is a saying among the qunari. If he believes you are still of his clan, and that you are open to his advances, then he fools himself. It has nothing to do with you that he acts the fool. Your keeper should have given him better guidance if she is anything like the _tamassran_ of the qunari.”

“I believe she sees who I was when I left, and that isn’t the same person I see when I look in the mirror. I’ve changed, and I still can’t decide if it was for better for worse.”

“What does it matter? The change happened, and there is no going back. Were you to change your mind, leave the Wardens, and rejoin your mother clan, you would still not be who you were. You would be living a lie. You must live in the way the world intended.”

She stopped and turned to look at Sten, returning her dagger to its sheath. “What do you mean?”

His look on her was inscrutable, his violet eyes revealing nothing telling. “My people have a tale: a great _ashkaari,_ during his travels, came upon a village in the desert. There, he found the houses crumbling, the earth so dry and dead that the people tied themselves to each other for fear a strong wind would carry the ground out from under their feet. Nothing grew there except the bitter memory of gardens. The _ashkaari_ stopped the first man he saw, and asked, ‘What happened here?’

“‘Drought came. And the world changed from prosperity to ruin,’ the man told him.

“‘Change it back,’ the _ashkaari_ replied. The villager became angry then, believing the _ashkaari_ mocked him, for no one could simply change the world on a whim. To which the _ashkaari_ answered, ‘Then change yourself. You make your own world.’” Sten’s hand briefly drifted toward the hilt of the two-handed sword sticking up over his shoulder, and then his eyes seemed to snap back to reality. He focused on Líadan once more. “You cannot make the world suit you. You must suit the world. You have done this, and it does not deserve any doubt.”

Líadan remembered the story Hildur had told her about how it came to be that a qunari ended up a Warden. She had appealed to his belief in the Qun, and how just because he’d become tainted did not mean his life was at an end, and therefore wasted. In becoming a Warden, he had changed to suit the world that had changed around him, no longer a soldier of the Beresaad, but still within the confines of the Qun and its beliefs. She understood his point to her, that she had done the same, but was suffering doubt because she had returned to people and a life that had once been her own. Now it was not, and what she chose to do with herself deserved no more judgement from her former life than the other qunari could judge Sten. The Dalish were no longer of her immediate clan. They did not understand her as they once did. They most definitely did not understand her world, so very different from theirs as Wardens. She was not an outsider to them so much as they were outsiders to her. That was the way it was. Líadan nodded at Sten. “You’re right.”

He returned the nod. “Indeed. It is good to know that you see the truth.”

She blinked, recognizing that she did see a truth she hadn’t accepted before, and suddenly everything seemed different. Brighter, sharper, more alive now that she had found her way out of the hazy doubt that had plagued her since they first set out into the Planasene Forest. The sureness of feeling she’d felt back in Highever when she’d told Malcolm that she was not one to be ashamed of who she was or what she did when she believed it was right. As a Grey Warden, what she did was exactly that, and the Dread Wolf take the Mahariel if they disagreed. They were not Wardens. They wouldn’t understand. 

And partly because she had become a Warden, they would never have to try. She nodded again, and walked into the next cavern with a confident step. The first thing she noticed was that this cavern was far more deliberately constructed than the others. The ones before had been rough at best, mostly naturally-occurring, little more than standard caves. But this cavern had once been a temple or, perhaps more recently, a tomb. She passed under a stone archway, pausing under it when she caught sight of a bloodied handprint on one of the stones. “That doesn’t bode well.” When she glanced back at Sten, she saw that he looked vaguely uncomfortable. She couldn’t blame him since this place was certainly high up on her list of really disturbing places she’d visited. And considering she’d spent a lot of time in the Deep Roads, that was saying something quite significant.

She left the archway behind and descended a set of worn, stone stairs into a larger chamber, what she supposed might once have been the main area of this apparent temple. At the far end of the room, she saw a puzzling statue, one she’d not once encountered, in person, in books, or in stories. As she strode towards it, she tried not to notice that there were niches in the walls that were filled with skulls. Sten’s heavy footsteps behind her were very reassuring as she fought against her unease. 

“Is this elven?” Sten asked as they came to a stop in front of the strange statue of what Líadan supposed was possibly a man. Maybe. If she squinted a lot and tilted her head.

“Not that I’m aware of.” She took a hesitant half-step toward the statue, feeling its strange red eyes on her no matter where she moved. Its legs were crossed in front of it, one set of arms resting on its knees, while another pair of arms were folded over a potbelly with a spiral design carved into it. Its mouth hung open, baring wide, flat teeth on its bottom jaw, and its nose was nothing but nostrils set right into the face. Her eyes went to its ears to see if it could reveal its origins, but the ears looked like the ends of musical horns—certainly nothing like anything she’d ever seen before.

“Then this is not one of the relics you are looking for.”

Líadan took the remaining half-step that brought her within touching distance of the statue. “I didn’t say that. You never rule anything out. My people didn’t know of the eluvians until recently. This could be another one of those discoveries.” Though, studying the statue, she dearly hoped it wasn’t elven, because it really was appallingly ugly. She reached out, placed her gloved fingertips on the statue’s leg, and dropped to a knee when she was hit by a feeling of incredible loneliness. Then a voice whispered in her head, pleading for help. “Who are you?” She reached out with her other hand, seeking a better connection.

_I am One Who is Trapped._

The terrible loneliness marched through her mind, leaving an echoing emptiness to be filled with nothing but sorrow.

_Help me._

“How are you trapped?”

_I was bound here. I must be unbound._

All she wanted to do was to bring an end to the loneliness. The room faded around her until she could only see the statue. Footsteps near here were muffled, voices except for the mysterious one were dampened. “How?”

“ _Teth a_!” shouted Sten, and she was yanked away from the statue. 

The voice fell silent.

Líadan stared at the statute. “What is that?” She held her eyes wide open in an attempt to regain the sight she’d lost while touching the statue. 

Others had come running into the cavern at some point, and now Anders stood next to the statue, glaring at it with a great deal of hostility and suspicion. “There is a demon bound inside. I had thought, when I was in the other room, I was hearing something. But here, closer to the statue, I can hear it clearly. It should be fine as long as it stays trapped.” Anders turned a bemused look to Líadan. “And if no one touches it. Especially mages. Whatever possessed you to physically touch it?”

She shrugged. “I was curious.” 

At the same time, Malcolm said, “Not sure you should use the words ‘possessed’ and ‘demon’ in such close proximity to the word ‘mage,’ pretty much ever.” Then he glanced at Sten. “Speaking of, she isn’t possessed. You can let her go now.” 

Sten seemed skeptical, but grudgingly removed his large hands from Líadan’s shoulders.

Anders ignored Malcolm and looked from Líadan to the statue and back again. “Curiosity? Really? That’s that what made you touch an incredibly disturbing statue?”

She gave the statue a wary look, deciding never to step near it again. “It’s—”

“It’s how Tamlen died and it’s how she ended up being taken away from the clan,” Fenarel said. He stood just inside the entrance from the tunnel, arms crossed over his chest. “It seems curiosity in all things is her downfall.”

Líadan pretended to ignore Fenarel, opting to dust off her knees instead of replying to him. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Malcolm glaring at him, his body tense, but Fenarel said nothing more.

“Why could you hear it from the other cavern and she could not?” Sten asked Anders.

“Because I’m a weak mage and Anders isn’t,” Líadan said before Anders could answer. “His connection to the Beyond is far stronger than mine. He can probably hear the demon even now.”

Anders nodded. “I can. But it can’t really influence me or anyone else unless you actually physically touch the statute, as far as I can tell. What I don’t understand is how Keeper Marethari couldn’t already know this was up here. From what I’ve seen, she is a very powerful mage.”

Líadan frowned. “So was Merrill.” She turned to Fenarel. “Were the keeper and Merrill up here at any point?”

Fenarel shrugged. “I don’t recall. Perhaps. They did take walks together, but you know how separate a First’s education is from the rest of the clan.”

“Did it have anything to do with her exile?” Had Merrill not learned blood magic from books, but instead learned it from a spirit? This demon? But why? It made no sense that Merrill would choose to do something like that. She understood the dangers of bound spirits, especially in places like Sundermount, where the Veil was so thin. There wasn’t anything she could think of that would cause Merrill to risk those dangers, to risk possession.

Another shrug from Fenarel. “Maybe. Whatever happened was between her and Keeper Marethari, and didn’t involve the rest of us. They argued, and then Merrill left the clan.” Before Líadan could ask another question, he turned and walked back down the passageway. 

“I guess that’s that,” said Anders, who then seemed to notice the rest of the cavern for the first time. “And what’s with the skull motif?” He moved over to one of the niches and looked over the skulls more closely. “They’re human skulls, by the way.” He shivered. “All right, I’m not sure about the rest of you, but I would like to get my rear end off this mountain before I soil my knickers out of fright. That demon is _desperate_ to get out, and the Veil is very much too thin for my liking to stick around here.”

“There are no relics,” said Líadan. “Not sure why Marethari sent us here.” Of course, Marethari would’ve had a point in sending her and the others here. All that remained was figuring out said point. It could be a warning or an explanation or both. Fenarel’s lack of cooperation also didn’t help with sussing things out, either. 

“Should we not destroy the statue?” asked Sten.

Anders looked at him in alarm. “No! There’s no telling what could happen if we tried to break it apart. Best leave it as it is. The demon can’t do anything as long as it’s bound to the statue, so the safest thing to do is leave it and not let anyone else come up here. Maybe if we could convince some surface dwarves who are good at demolition to come up here and collapse the entrance, that would allay some of the danger, but I wouldn’t put any bets on dwarves climbing up here unless there was a lot of coin involved. No, best leave it and pretty much pretend we never stumbled across it.”

Líadan gave the statue one last wary look, wondering what lesson she was missing, and started for the other cavern. Like before, in the graveyard, she thumped Fenarel with her shoulder on the way past, just to make sure he knew how displeased she was at his behavior. Cammen waited in the chamber with the spider’s carcass, making the finishing touches on rolling up what he and Fenarel had apparently removed from around one of the spider’s fangs. It looked fuzzy, and she could see that one of the fangs was looking decidedly less fuzzy than before. She hoped Gheyna appreciated what Cammen had gone through to win his adulthood and the ability to bond with her. If she didn’t, she’d bring Gheyna along when she went searching for her missing staff and let the young apprentice halla keeper see the kind of creatures that waited for them on Sundermount.

Cammen looked up from his work. “What’d you find? Relics?”

“No.” The frown returned, though it wasn’t meant for Cammen. “Just a statue that isn’t elven, and a bunch of human skulls.”

He shivered. “That’s creepy.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You sound like my br—someone I know. One of the other Wardens, back in Ferelden. Anything remotely scary, Alistair always deemed to be creepy.” She’d almost referred to Alistair as her brother-in-law. When had she started thinking of him that way? He’d certainly been like a brother to her in all but name for a long time, but she’d never named him as such through her relationship with Malcolm. More and more, this was beginning to be a very odd day. 

“I think it’d be even more scary for him, since he’s human and you said they were human skulls.” Cammen slung the rolled-up pelt—she supposed it could be called a pelt—over his shoulder. “Strange that we didn’t find anything. Were you looking for anything specific?”

“Not exactly, no. We know Morrigan is looking for an eluvian like the one Tamlen and I found in the Brecilian Forest, but I already knew we wouldn’t find one here. I was just hoping Keeper Marethari would’ve been more helpful.” She sighed. “And Merrill, too. Her knowledge would’ve helped a great deal.”

“Only if you were civil to her long enough to resist getting into an argument.” He did nothing to hide his amusement. “I remember the rows you used to get into with her. Merrill always got along with everyone else. You were the only one who ever got into fights with her. Well, before, anyway. Then she and Marethari got into them, after you left.” The sound of footsteps carried in from the passageway, and Cammen cast an uneasy look toward them. “Nevermind. I’ve said too much. Are we going back to the camp?”

Líadan glanced over and saw the rest of the group trooping inside the chamber. She doubted Cammen would chat freely with Fenarel around. “Yes.”

He nodded, and then moved closer to her. “Just so you know, personally, I don’t think Fenarel has the courage of Elgar’nan. That human of yours seems pretty solid, though, if you ignore the spider issue.”

She drew her head back and peered at Cammen. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Ask Malcolm. He’ll tell you.” Then before she could corner him and ply him for a proper explanation, he skipped away, heading back to the outside trails of the mountain. Fenarel was first through the passage, glaring first at her, and then up at Cammen’s retreating back before following. She sighed and went after them, Malcolm falling into step at her side, with Sten and Anders bringing up the rear. The trip back out to the side of Sundermount took half as long as the trip inside, and soon enough they were walking down the trail and toward the altar left for Mythal. 

Even walking a decent distance behind Fenarel, Líadan could feel the anger bristling off him as they descended. It was woven into the very air around him, a barrier as tight and almost as palpable as a mage’s arcane shield. She wondered what he’d say to the others when they returned to the clan, if he’d go straight to Marethari and tell her what he’d witnessed with Líadan and Malcolm, or if he’d take his role of hunter more seriously and inform Marethari that Cammen was ready for _vallaslin_ and leave his personal issues out of it. Judging from how Fenarel had already acted in regards to Cammen, Líadan doubted he’d be able to refrain from making it personal. Yet aside from making sure that Cammen received the honors due to him, whatever else happened didn’t much matter in the long term.

Obviously, Marethari had no intentions of helping them. She’d given Líadan directions to an empty cache, a place with only a creepy statue that happened to have a demon trapped inside. At best, they could press the keeper for more information—because that _always_ went well—or they could get what they could and just move on. To where, Líadan wasn’t sure, because they’d hoped Marethari could’ve helped, since that had been the point of visiting here. She had gotten Merrill’s last known whereabouts from the keeper, so they could try to find her if Marethari wasn’t any more forthcoming. Not that Líadan especially looked forward to a trip into Kirkwall. She’d heard enough from Anders to know that it wasn’t a place she wanted to visit. 

And, facing Merrill would be strange. Very strange. What could she even say to express her condolences? _“I’m sorry that you’re an exile? Sucks, doesn’t it?”_ She supposed they could commiserate about being Dalish elves living amongst humans, but they wouldn’t even have very much in common with that. Líadan had another clan. She had the Grey Wardens and had moved from the Mahariel to the Wardens without any loneliness in between. Granted, it’d taken her a long time to realize and accept the Wardens as her new clan, but that didn’t change the fact that they’d always been there from the moment she’d been forced to leave the Mahariel. She did want to know why Merrill had learned blood magic, though, and if she’d learned it from the demon bound to that statue. What really bothered her was not knowing why Merrill had been exiled. Marethari might call it Merrill choosing her own path all she wanted, but the end result was still exile, and none of the other members of the clan would even speak of her. Cammen almost had, but Fenarel’s presence had quickly quieted him. 

Cammen and Fenarel passed by Mythal’s altar without stopping, though Líadan wasn’t surprised—it wasn’t as much a hunter’s job to pay attention to those things as it was a keeper’s. The feeling in the air hadn’t changed, and she couldn’t help the shiver that went through her on seeing the brightly-burning flame on top of the stone altar. 

“You stopped here on the way up,” Malcolm said quietly. “And you look no less disturbed about being here now than you did then.”

She reached out and tapped the side of the clay brazier, amazed that the blue-green flame radiated no heat. “Something feels strange about this place. I thought it was me, really, that I was being silly, seeing or feeling _Asha’belannar’s_ presence everywhere. But I still feel it. Like I could look up and see a yellow-eyed crow, or an iridescent maroon dragon flying in the air above me.” Reflexively, she looked into the sky to see only sky, yet she felt no relief. The clouds were dark and troubled, whipped about by the high winds that never seemed to touch the ground. Sundermount always felt like it was about to storm, like it was waiting for that last storm to break, but the storm never seemed to arrive. 

“You might not be wrong.”

The amount of alarm in Malcolm’s voice made Líadan turn from the vista around the mountain. “What do you mean?”

His eyes were slightly widened, but his gaze was focused inward, as if remembering something. “You reminded me. _Asha’belannar_. It’s what the Dalish call Flemeth, isn’t it?”

“The Woman of Many Years, yes. Why?”

“The other day, I was chatting with some of the clan’s children—you know, they’re a lot less stand-offish than the adults of the clan.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, they’d been playing with Revas and Gunnar, and somehow the topic of dragons came up—”

“That was Saraid, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Like that was hard to guess. She brought up you and slaying dragons and... you know, she wants to be like you.”

Her frowned deepened. She knew that her path in life had been a necessary one, but she didn’t wish it on any of the clan’s children. Or, really, any child, anywhere, ever. “I hope you convinced her otherwise. Being a Grey Warden isn’t that great of a career for anyone.”

He gave her a sheepish smile. “Who am I to crush the hopes and dreams of children? I didn’t encourage her, but I didn’t outright discourage her either. She’ll find her way. She’s still at the age where dragons are awesome and cool, and therefore, slaying dragons must be more awesome and even cooler. Oren was like that.” His smile faded with the emergence of sad memories. “So, one of the little boys mentioned having seen a dragon. When I asked him where, assuming he meant a book or something, hepointed to the sky and said he saw it up there. Then he started giving me more information, saying that ‘we remember because we saw it right before another clan came to visit with,’ but then an adult member of the clan appeared, cutting him off, and sending the kids running. He did get one word out, though. ‘ _Asha_.’ The start to _Asha’belannar._ Do you think he was talking about Flemeth?”

“Maybe, especially given he was talking about a dragon near the same time, but we both know that despite people believing dragons were hunted to extinction, they still exist. It could’ve just been a high dragon and not _Asha’belannar_ in her high dragon form. ‘ _Asha_ ’ alone means ‘woman,’ so he could’ve been talking about any woman.” She ran her fingers along the stone altar, more curious about another clan having visited than the possibility that _Asha’belannar_ had been here. It was clear that the old woman was here no longer. Had she been, surely she would’ve made herself known by now. Plus, last they’d heard, it was Morrigan who’d been closely associated with the Dalish. Morrigan had been traveling with a Dalish clan. “Or, he could’ve been talking about _Asha’belannar’s_ daughter.” 

Malcolm’s head snapped up from his contemplation of the gravel underfoot. “Morrigan?”

“She was supposed to be with a Dalish clan. Remember how we ran into those hunters in the Wilds? Could’ve been from that clan. This plan of ours is based on tracking down what Morrigan is looking for, so it doesn’t seem like it’d be much of a jump in reasoning to think that Morrigan has already been here.”

“Why wouldn’t Keeper Marethari just tell us?”

Líadan shrugged. “I don’t know. Why would she send us to an empty cache? Why would she send us to a place where a demon is bound within a statue? Why would she exile Merrill? I have many questions for her, and I doubt she’ll answer a single one.” She pushed herself away from the altar and headed for the other side of the graves, where Fenarel and Cammen waited. Both men were impatient, but for entirely different reasons. Fenarel because he was fuming, and Cammen because he was excited that he’d finally gotten his kill. “Fenarel,” Líadan said, loudly and pointedly enough to get his attention. “Have you seen any dragons around here?”

He regarded her for a moment with a hard stare, and then flicked his eyes toward the Wardens following in Líadan’s wake before returning to her. “Can’t say that I have.”

Cammen rolled his eyes. “Yes, you can—”

Fenarel snatched the pelt off Cammen’s shoulder and dangled it over the edge of the trail. “No, we cannot. These are outsiders. It’s best you remember that.” He tucked the pelt under his arm. “I’ll keep this, lest you forget yourself.” Then he spun on his heel and strode down the mountain.

Malcolm looked from Fenarel to the glaring Cammen. “If you want, I’ll hold him down while you punch him. Then you can hold him for me.”

For a moment, the hunter apprentice looked tempted, and then his face crumpled in sadness. “Not while he has my pelt. I can’t risk losing Gheyna after all of this.”

“I know.” Malcolm squinted down the trail at Fenarel. “I know exactly what you mean.”


	80. Chapter 80

**Chapter 80**

“An _ashkaari_ walked among the fields once, observing the laborers at work. Flax bloomed all around him, the color of still water. The air rippled like a curtain. As he stopped to examine a blossom, a bee stung him on the hand. The _ashkaari_ turned to a laborer for aid, and noticed, for the first time, the heavy gloves and coat she wore. As she tended to him, the _ashkaari_ asked them why she was dressed so in such stifling heat. ‘To avoid your fate,’ she replied.

‘But there are many thousands of bees here,’ the _ashkaari_ said to her, ‘and only one stung me. Surely your caution is unwarranted?’

‘The stinger is always a surprise,’ agreed the laborer. ‘But so is the bee that simply passes one by.’”

—an excerpt from _The Qun_

**Malcolm**

As Malcolm walked into the little Warden camp, Sigrun looked up from a pilfered book and gave him an odd look. “What happened to you?”

“Spiders.” Already, he’d flung his gauntlets down next to the tent. Then he was fumbling at the straps of his cuirass, letting it fall to the ground near the fire with a clank. He needed to strip out of all this gear as soon as possible, spend however long it would take in the water to rinse the spider guts off him—forever, probably—and then spend the rest of eternity trying to scrub the stains from his armor. Sword belt dropped next, and then he went after the chainmail.

Sigrun watched closely as each piece of armor hit the soft ground. “So... what? After you killed them, you rolled around in their remains?”

He shucked off the chainmail. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Truly, he didn’t even want to _think_ about it again, ever. When their group had gotten back to the Dalish camp, Fenarel had gone straight for the keeper, Cammen close on his heels. Líadan had given them an exasperated look, shrugged at Malcolm, and gone after them. But to his surprise, Fenarel had simply handed over what seemed to pass for a pelt given that the fuzzy _thing_ had once been part of a spider, and stalked away without saying anything about what’d happened between him and Líadan and Malcolm on Sundermount. Then Líadan had gone with Marethari and Cammen to find Gheyna, and Malcolm had headed back to the Warden camp with Sten and Anders.

“He was trapped under it,” Anders told Sigrun, sounding far too cheerful.

Malcolm looked over his gambeson and saw only dirt and sweat, but that came off, too. He used his foot to gather the dropped armor into a pile near his tent and fetched out a fresh set of clothing—his last one, which meant the unenviable task of laundering soon—and supplies he’d need for bathing.

“How was he trapped under it?” asked Sigrun. “I mean, they’re as big as me fully grown, so I could see me trapped under it, or Oghren, maybe, if he’d had enough to drink. But Malcolm?” Her book had long since been set aside in favor of new entertainment. “Not really seeing it.”

“Oh, you _should_ have. It was priceless,” said Anders.

“It wasn’t a normal-sized giant spider.” Malcolm gave Anders a dirty look. “You explain. I’m going to go bathe. Possibly forever.” Then he left the camp behind and spent the next hour making sure nothing remained in his short hair or on his skin that could’ve been from a spider. He would have stayed in the water longer, but his growling stomach drove him to seek out the Warden camp to tear into a meal with the other Wardens. Afterward, Líadan had still yet to appear, and curiosity drove him to start searching. While it’d been nice to see Fenarel mostly shut his big, fat mouth on Sundermount, he knew from what Líadan had told him that the real problems could be with the rest of her clan. Though Fenarel hadn’t seemed to tell Marethari about what had happened, he wasn’t sure if Líadan was going to keep quiet on the matter any longer, not with the pressure from Marethari and Fenarel. And if Líadan got into a rip-roaring argument with the keeper, he didn’t see how that would end well, especially considering that the last person who’d argued with Marethari had ended up exiled. 

Yes, he needed to find her before something that unpleasant happened, especially if they were going to get any information about the possibility of Morrigan having visited. He also wanted to be able to talk to Líadan before she did or said anything drastic with the Dalish. When they’d been walking back down Sundermount, he could tell something about her had changed. Her confidence in the past week had been far below anything he’d ever seen with her, and only on the return trip did he see the resurgence of sureness within her, in how she held herself and in her eyes. First had been her declaration to him, saying very quietly as they observed Fenarel and Cammen stalk down the trail, “Something is terribly wrong. I don’t remember half of them being this hostile.”

He’d tried bringing a little levity to the situation, something that Sundermount sorely needed. “Maybe not to you. Personally, my first impression of the rest of your clan was the points of several arrows. Just thought I’d mention that. And, you said yourself that you weren’t really that much different.”

Líadan hadn’t responded to it, her thoughts too troubled to be brushed aside so easily. “They don’t feel... these aren’t my people anymore. This isn’t my home. An echo inside me says that it should be, but when I reach out for that connection, my fingers find nothing but emptiness. It’s like someone came through and tore every thread that connected me to them, and then swept away any remnants. The people who were my kin stand down there in the camp, and yet they are gone.” Her words had been forlorn, and yet her posture was confident.

He wasn’t sure what exactly had changed, and he wanted to find out and make sure it didn’t disappear again. If that meant continuing to keep things quiet—okay, relatively quiet, given the night before—around the Dalish, then so be it.

On his way to the central area of the Dalish camp, he almost passed by Master Ilen without bothering to stop. Then he halted when he realized Líadan might’ve stopped by to ask Ilen for a new stave considering the fate hers had met on Sundermount. He stood in front of Ilen’s worktable, where the master craftsman kept tools and supplies within easy reach while he worked. A table nearby held several finished or nearly-finished items, including a few bows and a basket of fletched arrows.

“One moment, young man,” said Ilen, not looking up from his work. He sat on a stool in front of some sort of vise that held the grip of a bow. His face was very close to the upper limb of the bow, and Malcolm could see that he was inscribing something on the outside that looked remarkably like a griffon. “Just putting the finishing touches on Líadan’s bow.”

“I thought you said it’d take a few days.” He didn’t bother asking how Ilen knew it was him. The older man reminded him of the keeper in that way, and asking him a question like that would only serve to annoy him.

“I did say that. However, this was already seasoned, nearly ready, and made very much like her mother’s bow.” He blew away the dust, sat back, and observed his work. “Yes, I think that will do very nicely.” Ilen took the bow out of the vise and looked it over with an appraising eye before glancing at Malcolm. “Do me a favor and hand me that piece of leather I have set aside on the corner of that table.”

Malcolm shrugged and hunted for the leather the craftsman was referring to. There were several pieces of varying sizes and shapes and the table had four corners. “Um, which corner?”

“Your lower right. Just bring it over here. Grab that piece of sinew, as well. My apprentice has run off, so you get to help me with this part.”

He did as he was asked, but gave Ilen a confused look as he walked over with the supplies. “What part? You realize that I’m not very good at stuff like this, right? This is why I hit things for a living instead of creating things. Once, at the request of my nephew, I tried to carve a mabari out of a hunk of driftwood he found.”

Ilen directed Malcolm in wrapping the leather around what was to be the grip of the bow, and then lacing the sinew. Then he asked, “And how did it turn out? Did it look like a mabari?”

“No. In the end, it looked like a lump of wood, only smaller, and I had several cuts on my hands.” Malcolm tightened and tied the sinew as Ilen instructed. “My nephew was very upset that I’d not only ruined the wood, but that I’d bled all over it.”

“Well, you managed not to do either with this.” Ilen checked the positioning of the leather and its fit against the wood. After a satisfied nod, he tucked the bow into a nondescript leather case along with a quiver, bowstrings, and a bunch of arrows. 

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “I tied something. That hardly counts.”

Ilen smiled. “But it was a part of the process, nonetheless, and that’s what matters. What’s more, you managed not to break it or insult its very being, as your childhood friend insisted you would. Perhaps you will become a craftsman or archer yet.”

“Yes, that’ll be the day. My foster mother was good with a bow. Me? Not so much. Or at all, really.” He sighed, wanting the subject off him before Ilen tried to teach him how to properly use a bow, because that would just get all sorts of ugly. “By the way, did you see Líadan run by here?”

“Last I heard, she’d gone with Gheyna to hunt for her stave. Something about having lost it on Sundermount? Or thrown it, I’m not such which. Gheyna was talking very quickly. She’s excited about receiving her _vallaslin_ later, after Cammen is finished with his. He’s with the keeper now, in fact. Hasn’t made a sound that I’ve heard. Gheyna will see the keeper after him. It will do the clan some good to finally see those two bond.”

“I’m sure it will.” At least some people would be happy. It had to count for something. “If she can’t find her stave, are you able to make new ones?”

“Certainly. I’ve also got a few in storage that I’ve gotten from trades.” He tilted his head to the side in thought. “How did she lose her staff? Did she throw it off the mountain in a fit of pique?”

Malcolm couldn’t help but smile at the image, because he really could see Líadan doing just that. “No. Not exactly. There was a revenant about to kill Cammen and her magic had run out, so she used her staff like a spear. It sent the revenant over the side of a cliff, taking her staff with it. Honestly, I think she just doesn’t like staffs, or something like that, because she keeps losing or destroying them. She never does that with daggers. She takes far better care of them.”

“Somehow, I’m not surprised. When she found out she was a mage, she was very upset. Once everything had happened with her parents, it was very understandable and easy to see why. But many Dalish, they just don’t understand that magic is not always the gift they claim it to be. Hers is not enough to be of great use, but just enough to cause trouble. Her heart is very much as a hunter’s and always will be.” Ilen idly picked up an arrow and checked the fletching on it. “She would never settle into the role of a keeper, were she made into one, that much I can tell you.”

“Keeper Marethari seems to think otherwise.” Malcolm moved closer to the aravel, mindful of the bench close behind him so he didn’t trip over it.

“Between you and me, the keeper sees only the past right now, and is having trouble seeing the present for what it is.” He sighed. “Líadan is the child of two of my closest friends. After everything that has happened to her, she will never be able to find happiness here with only the clan. Her destiny lies elsewhere, and the keeper cannot see this because of the arguments she’s had with Merrill. And...” Then he gave Malcolm a pointed look. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you, young man, when she thinks no one is looking. Or perhaps she doesn’t even know she does it. Hmm. Yes, most likely that.”

Malcolm stared at the older man, a blush working its way across his face and burning at his ears. This sort of confrontation wasn’t something that he’d expected—he’d never thought one of the Dalish would mention anything to him without Líadan present. Suddenly, he was at a loss for words, something that he knew several people in his life thought never happened enough with him. He also really, really wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole, which he knew it wouldn’t, because it never seemed to do things like that at a useful time. “She... I—I love her.” His eyes went wide as he realized what he’d blurted out and how _very not good_ it was to say to one of the Dalish. He took a breath as he tried to summon the ability to speak properly. “I know it’s bad. I know that I’m not supposed to, that Dalish aren’t, that she can’t... but there’s... I don’t know how it happened, but it did, and it’s made her absolutely miserable about being here.” He sat down on the bench, hard, thankful that it was there because, frankly, his legs had stopped working. Yet even sitting down, he couldn’t bring himself to look Ilen in the eye, if only because he was afraid of the glare he’d be receiving or, even worse, he was certain that the craftsman could kill him with any of the tools scattered about in a hundred different ways. “But, no matter how much either of us tries to, it doesn’t seem to change how we feel, even though, most of the time, I’m convinced I’m making her life far more unhappy than it need be.” Then he leaned his head against the aravel and cautiously dared to look at Ilen, bracing himself for, well, death, really.

However, Master Ilen was not wielding any of his tools in preparation to kill the human. Instead, he was quietly chuckling. “She is a Grey Warden, and therefore not bound to the same strictures as an elf who belongs to a Dalish clan. And I daresay ‘unhappy’ would not be the word I would associate with her when it comes to you.”

Malcolm quickly glanced over where he assumed Líadan would be searching for her lost stave, and then raised an eyebrow at Ilen. “Are we talking about the same person? Have you watched her? I mean, Fenarel wants—or wanted, I’m not sure where he stands right now on his end—to bond with her. Without me around, she could’ve just accepted his offer.”

Ilen outright laughed. “No. Oh, no. Even if she had never become ill with the taint and remained with this clan and known nothing of the larger world of Thedas, she never would have bonded with that boy. He was the one who pushed her enough to make her hit him with lightning that unfortunate day years ago. No, she’s found the right path. She just has to realize that she’s already on it, even when the keeper insists differently.” He took the case he’d put the bow in and handed it to Malcolm. “There you go. Don’t forget that you helped make it. Give it to Líadan whenever she’s ready. You’ll know. Now get going. I’ve got to go find my apprentice.”

Case heavy in his hands, Malcolm walked slowly back to the Grey Warden camp as the sun disappeared behind the Vimmark Mountains. He found the camp strangely empty of Wardens, though the fire burned merrily. Sten must be with the horses and probably the dogs, he figured. As for the others, he couldn’t be certain. Possibly they were with some of the Dalish, listening to Hahren Paivel’s stories or trying to see Cammen or perhaps Gheyna, at this point, receiving the _vallaslin_. After what’d happened with Ilen, which had only served to confuse him even more, he decided he’d stay in the Warden camp for the night. Besides, he had armor to scrub. Heaving a huge sigh, he tucked away the case, dragged the cleaning supplies out of his pack and settled down next to the fire, one greave in hand, and set to scrubbing. He was weary of it within ten minutes, but kept at it, wanting no remnants of the spider on any of his belongings. It wasn’t until he was scouring the cuirass, checking it occasionally in the light from the fire, that someone wandered into the camp. Not sensing a fellow Warden, he glanced up, assuming it might be Cammen, or perhaps little Saraid out way past her bedtime.

It was neither of them. Instead, it was Fenarel. The elf had set his feet shoulder-width apart, arms held stiffly at his sides, and his green eyes glittered in the firelight. Malcolm noticed, for the first time, that Fenarel’s _vallaslin_ seemed to be a more intricate version of Líadan’s tattoos. It made sense, given that Fenarel was a hunter, that he would bear the _vallaslin_ that symbolized Andruil. When Fenarel didn’t say anything, Malcolm shrugged and went back to his scrubbing. It was, at the moment, far more important that he rid his armor of spider guts than it was for him to fight with Fenarel. Not that he wouldn’t if it came down to it, or that he didn’t want to. Though watching Líadan take him out earlier had admittedly taken the edge off needing to deck the other man.

“What is it you think you are doing?” Fenarel asked, his voice both incredulous and harsh.

Malcolm didn’t look up, even though simply hearing the other man’s voice set him on edge once again. “Um, cleaning my armor?” he asked in return, doing his best to sound pleasant. If he’d faked it with Astrid, he could do the same here. “You can have all the spider insides on your armor that you want, but personally, I enjoy not having spider innards smeared on my armor. So, if you would excuse me, I’ll get back to it.” There, he had made an honest attempt at keeping the peace. If Fenarel chose to press the other issues, he couldn’t be saddled with the blame, at least not fairly. Besides, Líadan had already had her go at Fenarel. It wasn’t his fault that Sten had intervened.

“Don’t try to play dumb with me. You know exactly what I mean.”

He looked up from oiling the cuirass. “No, I’m not quite sure that I do.”

The corner of Fenarel’s eye twitched. “What you’re doing is wrong.”

Malcolm sighed. “No, spider guts staining my armor is wrong. I’m simply putting it to rights by removing it. I’d thought for sure that the Dalish engaged in the basic aspects of armor care.”

“You are impossible, shemlen.”

And there it was, the dreaded word. He’d grown so used to Líadan’s presence, along with the concepts and ideas of the Dalish culture, over the past months that he’d forgotten how alien he was to them as a whole. Not that being in the middle of a Dalish camp hadn’t already reminded him, but being called ‘shem’ or ‘shemlen’ did a much better job at informing him of their separate places in society. But he and Líadan and the other Wardens were different. Because they were Wardens, they were all already outside of their individual societies. They were set apart by the taint, their ties to the darkspawn, and their all-important task of protecting Thedas from the Blight. They had to do things that no average individual in any of their societies, be it human, elven, dwarven, or qunari, would ever have to do. The notion of them being outsiders, despite the appearance of still existing within the norms of every culture, still hadn’t much caught on. Malcolm suspected it never would, not as long as Grey Wardens were held to some sort of noble ideal stemming from the inherent nobility of their mission. All of the Wardens were all shems, even the elves, when defining the word by its connotation rather than its denotation, and there was no going back. The taint took care of that. “I’ve been told that by many people,” he said out loud. His foster mother, his natural mother, Morrigan on several occasions, Líadan on several others. He flashed a grin at Fenarel. “Usually women, though, now that I think of it.”

Fenarel’s jaw tightened at Malcolm’s smile. “You’re taking her away from her people.”

“The taint took her away from her people. And, by the way, you aren’t telling me anything that she hasn’t told me herself. I was there, remember? I was there when she had to leave your clan. I was there when Tamlen, turned into a ghoul, attacked her in the forest. I was there to see what happens to people who are tainted and don’t become Wardens. Had she stayed, she would have died like Tamlen did.” Malcolm deliberately went back to his task of cleaning his armor, depositing the now clean and oiled cuirass next to him and grabbing the last remaining greave.

“Perhaps she would have been better off remaining untouched by your shemlen hands.”

 _Must not kill Dalish elf in front of me, as it will anger the clan that’s extended us their hospitality, even though he is seriously asking for it. Must remember that Líadan_ _would be pissed and kill me. Right._ “I’ll not agree that she’s better off dead than a Warden, because that’s what it seems like you’re saying. But for anything else, in the end, it’s her choice to make, not mine.” His hands stilled and he glared at Fenarel. “And certainly not yours.”

To Malcolm’s surprise, Fenarel didn’t argue that point, though the knuckles on his fists had long turned white. “She’s welcome to return to her clan, but she has so far chosen to remain an outsider. You offer her nothing but exile. You are a human, a shemlen. You would give her nothing but misery.”

“Nothing but misery?” Malcolm stood, dropping the greave into the grass. “This from the man who called her a whore? I might’ve been injured at the time, but I remember what you said. Quite clearly, in fact.”

“She can’t be anything more to a human than that!” Fenarel threw his arms in the air and approached the fire, moving within arm’s reach of the human. “I was only speaking the truth. She is better than that. Definitely better than a weakling warrior who managed to nearly be crushed because he couldn’t simply move out of the way of a slowly falling spider.”

“Slowly falling? Obviously we remember two entirely different battles, because Cammen dropped that thing like a rock with that brilliant shot of his. Too bad I followed your example and underestimated him, or I would’ve moved sooner. You know, you should really start thinking better of your fellow Dalish. It might do you some good.” If Fenarel took the first swing, Líadan couldn’t get as mad at him for fighting with Fenarel. Hopefully, anyway, because he didn’t really see this little chat going in any other direction. The man deserved another beat-down for calling Líadan what he had, and the urge to give him just that had roared right back into existence.

“I’ll admit, Cammen proved me wrong in my assumptions that he was not ready to be a full hunter. But he is also too willing to talk to outsiders, and _you_ are certainly an outsider. And your continued relations”—Fenarel gestured toward the tents, leaving to mystery as to what ‘relations’ he was referring to—“only assure Líadan’s continued existence as an outsider and proves what I said about her. Until she realizes what she’s doing and _stops_ her abominable behavior, she is whore.”

Malcolm punched him. Seemed the right thing to do, considering, and it felt pretty good, aside from some bloodied knuckles. Fenarel took the punch better than Malcolm had thought, staggering back a few feet instead of falling on his ass. He wiped at his split lip, narrowed his eyes at the human, and then tackled him. The momentum carried them both into what Malcolm thought was Oghren’s tent, a hard corner of something catching at Malcolm’s back. The jab made him momentarily drop his defenses, allowing Fenarel to get a hit on his chin. Malcolm shoved the pain out of his mind and concentrated on pummeling the man who really needed to learn not to insult people. The talking with their fists meant they didn’t need to _say_ anything else, at least. The two of them rolled off the collapsed tent and grappled, Malcolm realizing that this man was flexible and fast and his bulk wouldn’t give him an advantage until he managed to stop him. He grabbed the front of Fenarel’s breastplate—unlike him, the Dalish warrior had left his armor on—and hauled him up for a proper hit. He heard voices shouting at the periphery of his hearing, but paid them no mind. He had a job to do and he’d be damned if anyone stopped him this time.

Then they both froze. Literally.

Malcolm was suddenly and distinctly reminded of the Blight, and wondered if Morrigan had somehow appeared. Well, if she had, and she found out what Fenarel had said, she would let him resume the fight. Either that, or she’d deal with Fenarel herself. Maker, he wished he knew who it was. Líadan, maybe, though she didn’t tend to use freezing spells. Possibly Keeper Marethari, though he would’ve assumed she’d use that roots from the ground trick. Being frozen in place, he couldn’t turn around to check.

“Anders! What did you go and do that for? I was going to _help_ him,” came Líadan’s voice.

Well, that explained the use of a cold spell. A _good_ one, too. Very strong and wouldn’t be relinquishing its freezing hold any time soon.

“I didn’t want them crashing into my tent next. I’ve got potions in there they could break, and I didn’t want to have to make more. Freezing them seemed a much easier option.”

“Not as fun.”

“Not for you, anyway, my dear.” There was a pause. “Cammen, is this what you expected when you asked to see the Grey Warden camp? It’s mostly empty of Wardens, but has some lovely entertainment in the form of _children fighting_.” Neither Malcolm nor Fenarel nor anyone within earshot could miss the pointed inflection of Anders’ words.

Maker, the cold spell was getting rather _cold_ , especially since he’d only been wearing a thin linen shirt and some leather trousers. His temper guttered out in the face of it, not willing to burn hot through the ice encasing him. 

Then Líadan stepped into his sight, looking far more amused than perturbed, the firelight glinting off the blade at the end of the staff on her back. _Oh, so she found it. Good._ She tapped at the ice separating him from the air. “Oghren owes me two sovereigns, now. He swore you’d be so busy scrubbing your armor that you wouldn’t bother going after Fenarel. I, on the other hand, figured that Fenarel would find you. I was right.” She smiled brightly, as if pleased, and then looked behind Malcolm. “Anders, let them go, please. They can’t talk when they’re like this, and that ruins the most of the fun.”

There was a huff Malcolm presumed came from Anders. Then the mage said, “All right, but the first one that makes a move like they’re going to fight again gets frozen in a very unpleasant way in a very unfavorable spot.”

 _That’s just not fair_. But Malcolm didn’t complain as the ice dematerialized and he was free to move his limbs again. As an added bonus, he was certain it had helped the cut on his chin. Not so much a bonus, it had probably helped Fenarel’s lip become less swollen. Win some, lose some, he supposed. He rubbed at his arms to warm them up.

Líadan looked between Malcolm and Fenarel and let out another sigh before turning to Anders. “Could you please heal Fenarel?”

Fenarel immediately took a step back. “I won’t have a shem—”

“Oh, _shut it_ , would you? Get over yourself. Anders is a healer, and if you had paid a bit of attention to anything Keeper Marethari said to him, you’d know that he is a very, very good one. That means he’s as good as she is. The keeper is busy with preparations for tomorrow, so you’ll just have to deal with a human healing you. You certainly don’t have the right to strut around camp looking smug and self-righteous because some nasty shem hit you. And don’t think I don’t know that you goaded him into it, because you’re here in the Warden camp and not the other way around.” As Líadan had spoken, Fenarel had almost visibly wilted under her words and fierce glare, allowing Anders to start in with the healing.

It didn’t stop Fenarel from grumbling, but he did nothing more than that.

Líadan nodded. “Good. Now, why were you here?”

Fenarel started to answer, but Anders stopped him. “I can’t heal you if you’re talking.” Anders glanced at Líadan. “Go interrogate the other one until I’m done with this one.”

“I can’t claim to know why he was here unless it was to start a fight,” Malcolm said before Líadan even finished turning around. “And I lasted for five whole minutes before I hit him, just so you know. See? I was thinking of you.”

She sighed, frowning when she noticed the cut on his chin, and then taking his right hand into hers and finding the scrapes there. “Do you want me to try to fix it?”

“No, not really. You’re many things, but a healer isn’t one of them, no matter how hard Fiona and the keeper tried to teach you to be. I’ll just wait patiently for Anders.”

“I’m almost offended,” Líadan said.

At the same time, Anders asked, “It’s nice to be recognized for your skill, isn’t it?”

Líadan rolled her eyes, and then studied Malcolm’s hand. “Did you have to hit him?”

“Yes.”

She arched an eyebrow at the speed of his reply. 

He shrugged. “You didn’t hear what he said. Well, yes, you did, up on Sundermount. But this time I wasn’t doing my best just to keep breathing, so I acted. And don’t expect me to apologize for it, either.”

Her expression darkened, and for a moment, Malcolm panicked at the thought that she was angry with him, and he was fully ready to backpedal into an apology to _her_. Not to Fenarel, but he’d certainly apologize to Líadan for making her mad. It led to less lightning used on his person. She pressed his hand against her chest, and then whirled to face Fenarel. Ah, so that’s where her anger was directed. Malcolm nearly bounced on his heels at the pleasant discovery that she wasn’t mad at him.

“Fenarel, I don’t understand why you’re continuing to press the issue. I told you no. There’s nothing more to say.”

“I want to understand.”

Anders scowled, and then moved away from the elf. “Fine, be that way. It’s healed, but it’ll still be tender. But, somehow I don’t think you even care.”

Fenarel didn’t outwardly react to Anders’ words. Instead, his gaze remained on Líadan. “I want to understand why you debase yourself with a shem. I can accept that you wouldn’t want to bond with me. Not easily, but I can accept it. What I can’t accept is you being with a shem.”

“You wouldn’t understand.” Líadan’s voice had lost some of its edge, taking on a note of resignation.

“Try me.”

She laughed, the sound more than a little rueful. “All right, you asked for it, so here you go—I love him. And, in case you’re currently trying to convince yourself that you heard something different, I’ll say it again—I love him. There you go. I love a human.”

Malcolm felt a thrill surge through his chest at hearing her say that to another Dalish elf, especially after all of the doubt and confusion of the days before. He had to work to keep himself from grinning, and he supposed he wasn’t terribly successful at the endeavor, because Anders swiftly stepped between him and Fenarel, breaking their line of sight. 

“You might want to keep that shit-eating grin off your face in front of that elf,” Anders whispered, grasping Malcolm’s chin to study the cut and apply healing magic. “I doubt he’ll take what she said very well, and you being smug about it won’t help matters.”

He didn’t reply to Anders because of the healing. Instead, he kept his attention on Líadan and Fenarel, and then noticed Cammen out of the corner of his eye, giving Líadan an odd, yet admiring look. Strange.

“I thought that you might,” Cammen said to Líadan, a tiny smile spreading on his lips. “I’d smile more, but it kind of hurts.” He glanced at Anders. “And it’s a pain I have to bear as part of receiving the _vallaslin_. It will pass by tomorrow.”

Fenarel’s astonished look shifted from Líadan to the newly-made hunter. “How can you be happy about this? She has lost herself to the clan by falling for a shem!”

“She lost herself to the clan when she and Tamlen were tainted,” said Cammen. “No Dalish who become Grey Wardens have ever returned to their clans. It’s like bonding with a member of another clan, really. They leave their mother clan to become part of the other clan.”

“The Grey Wardens aren’t Dalish. They aren’t a Dalish clan. It’s not the same thing.”

“The Wardens also aren’t human or dwarven or qunari,” said Líadan. “They aren’t anything but Wardens. We’re a clan of our own, outside everyone else. I told you that you wouldn’t understand.”

“Does the Keeper know?”

Líadan shrugged. “Probably. She’s observant, and she and Merrill always seemed to know things before the rest of us. But I haven’t told her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“If you had told her, you would not be welcome here. She needs to know.” He pushed past Cammen and headed toward the center of the Dalish encampment. “This must be remedied.”

Cammen went to stop him, but Líadan grabbed his arm. “Let him go. She would have found out sooner or later, if she didn’t already know. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did.” Then she let go of Cammen’s arm and looked at Malcolm. “So, how’d it feel to hit him?”

“Awesome.” He shook out the hand Anders had just finished healing. “Yup. You should try it when Sten isn’t around to save the other person. Much more satisfying that way.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.” She glanced over to where Fenarel had last been seen. “I wonder how long it will take before he’s back with the keeper in tow.”

“I should probably tell you what I wanted to tell you before,” said Cammen, shifting from foot to foot. Malcolm decided that the _vallaslin_ looked good on him, and wondered what god he’d chosen, since his tattoos didn’t have the same pattern as the one for Andruil. “We saw a high dragon up on Sundermount, many months ago. It flew away almost as soon as we saw it, and it was never seen again.” Cammen cast a nervous look up at the looming mountain, and then returned his gaze to the Wardens, looking thoroughly unsettled. “Merrill left the same day. Then, to make things even more strange, a few days later another clan visited ours. Among them was the daughter of _Asha’belannar_ , claiming to be searching for the same thing as you, something called an eluvian.”

“Morrigan was here?” Malcolm asked, giving Sundermount an uneasy look. The Veil was incredibly thin here, and knowing how Flemeth seemed to use the Fade to hunt her, it didn’t seem wise for Morrigan to be anywhere _near_ this place.

Cammen nodded. “Yes. Morrigan, that’s what she was called. She was very heavy with child and quite scathing with her words.” He winced as if in memory of being the target of one of Morrigan’s scathing remarks.

“That would be Morrigan, yes,” Líadan said with a laugh. “Did she stay long?”

He shook his head. “No. Claimed the Veil was too thin. The keeper didn’t tell her where Merrill went, and so she and the other clan left to go north, last I heard.”

“Why would Morrigan want to know where Merrill was?” asked Malcolm. 

“She—” Cammen broke off and blinked, drawing his head back in surprise. “You don’t know?” He took a breath and started pacing. “I thought you already knew. I thought the keeper at least would’ve told you that much, considering what it did to you.”

“What _what_ did to me?” Líadan’s eyes were becoming dangerously narrow, and Malcolm could see the beginnings of a magical aura forming along her fingers.

“The eluvian, how it killed Tamlen and made you sick.” Cammen stopped his pacing and ran both hands through his blond hair. “It—” He stopped again and seemed stricken, like he was only willing to say so much to people who weren’t of his clan, even though he’d known one of them for his entire life.

Líadan took exception. “What?”

“What he means to say,” came Keeper Marethari’s voice from the edge of the Warden camp, “is that Merrill tried to bring the eluvian with us when we left Ferelden.”

Malcolm wondered why Marethari couldn’t have mentioned that part a little bit sooner.

“She what?” Líadan spun to face the keeper. “Why?”

“She wished to fix it,” Marethari said, stepping into the light cast by the small campfire. “Rebuild it so that she could study it and possibly create a cure for you. For Tamlen, as well, until we learned of his death. Barring a cure, she also believed it would let us learn of the ways our ancestors from Arlathan.”

“There is no cure for the taint,” said Líadan.

Marethari inclined her head. “I know this as well, but Merrill could not be dissuaded from her course. She learned blood magic from a demon on Sundermount in order to cleanse what she had left of the eluvian.”

“What she had left?”

“I had her bury the remains of the eluvian before our clan left Ferelden, but Merrill managed to hide away one piece. Just a shard is what she has.”

“That’s it? All that glass and she only got one shard?” asked Malcolm. “There’s not much you can do with one shard.”

Líadan shot him a quick smile. “You don’t know Merrill. If she put her mind to it, and had the time and resources, she could probably recreate it in some manner.” The smile faded as her thoughts moved on, rifling through possibilities, and she returned to Marethari. “How long has she been in Kirkwall?”

“Months. She may not even still be there. I do not know. It is folly to pursue any course with the eluvian. It brings only death.”

Líadan’s back went straight. “I am not dead.”

Marethari considered the younger woman for a long moment. “No, you are not. There is life within you yet, despite the taint you carry. I can feel it. You will do as you feel you must, no matter what I or anyone else tells you. It is your way.” Her eyes shifted away from Líadan and landed on Malcolm. “If it is _Asha’belannar’s_ daughter you seek, you will find her at the White Spire with the Ra’asiel clan. They went to find a working eluvian.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this before?” asked Malcolm.

“I had hoped to dissuade you from your path as I could not do with Merrill. I had thought seeing where the demon who dealt with my lost First dwelled would help, but it did not. I had thought duty to your mother clan would persuade you, Líadan, but it did not. Now I can only give you the information you seek and hope that you will make the right choice.”

“And if we don’t?” asked Líadan.

Marethari’s eyes turned even more somber as she regarded Líadan. “Then may the Dread Wolf never catch your scent, _da’len_.”


	81. Chapter 81

**Chapter 81**

“Legends speak of a place where dragons go to die. In the far south, in the lands of the barbarian tribes, it is said that a dragon at the end of her days lies down and allows the bitter cold to take her.

It is not just a legend! I have seen Drake’s Fall with my own eyes, the ancient bones of these grand beasts piled atop one another. I felt the power that suffused this place and knew the Imperium would claim it.

We built a city on the bones. We delved deep into the earth, collecting what remained of the primordial dragons who were so like our Old Gods. With these bones we created staves for our magisters, armor for our warriors, and crowns for our archons. We fashioned phylacteries to hold our blood and sarcophagi to hold our bodies, and prayed they would make us immortal.”

— _from the writings of Archon Melos_

**Morrigan**

Newborns did not do much, as it turned out. This, Morrigan had been told by one of the older women of the clan, was normal. Yet though they seemed no more than small, warm lumps of living flesh, they fascinated her to a degree whereupon she not only scolded herself, but also drew outward scolding from those who knew of her plans. While they had no complaints about how much she interacted with the younger of the two boys, because he would always stay with her, they did have things to say about how much she seemed to be attaching herself to the older of the two. She knew, she had always known, what she would have to do with him, and knew that she shouldn’t spend time with him. He should be left in the care of the wet nurse they’d found in the clan, not allowing herself to love him. This, she knew, and yet...

It could not be helped.

The first mistake had been holding him just after he’d been born, the second had been in continuing to look upon him and touch him as she did the younger twin. Utilizing the aid of a wet nurse for the older, but not the younger, had been a step taken to counteract the bonding between mother and child, but it did nothing to halt the attachment from forming. She was helpless against it, the power these tiny creatures had over her, and wondered if it was possible she’d found the ultimate in power. She had chuckled softly at the revelation. If only it could be harnessed, then she would not need to flee Thedas with Cianán, and Cináed would not need be left behind. Yet that future could also not be helped, and so Morrigan continued walking a fine line between becoming too attached to her son, and maintaining an air of detachment. Even so, it put her in a foul mood when the wet nurse, Panowen, would fetch him, and an even worse mood when the woman declared that Morrigan was not fit to name children, and Cináed was far too much of a name for a baby since it couldn’t even be properly shortened. She had compared Cináed with her own child, declared him too slender—which also oddly brought out more ire from Morrigan—and started calling him Cáel. Despite Morrigan’s protests, it had caught on with the rest of the clan, and now no one used the boy’s proper name.

The day when she caught _herself_ calling her son Cáel instead of Cináed had put her in a right snit and she refused to say a word to Panowen for a solid week. At least by the time the week was over, her son was no longer overly skinny, and was deemed a decent size for a human infant. However, it did nothing to stop the use of the nickname, and so she lived with it, somewhat grudgingly. To be fair, she did appreciate Panowen in other aspects. The young hunter had lost her husband and discovered she was with child, in that order, on the same day. Though she had suffered a great loss, she had weathered it well. Her daughter, Elin, had been born only two weeks before Morrigan’s sons. And, Morrigan noted, had been given an appropriately short name. “Names have meaning and purpose,” she said to herself. “Cináed is a fine name. It does not need to be shortened. I do not shorten _my_ name, nor do others.”

Panowen, sitting across from her at the cookfire, gave her a wry smile. “People shorten your name, Morrigan. Just not where you can hear it.”

Morrigan sniffed at the indignity. “Please, tell me what—no.” She thought better of the request rather quickly, given memories of Malcolm and what he would do were he granted openings such as that one. “Nevermind. I do not wish to know what has been done to my name, especially knowing that you have given my son a nickname that does not even apply to his real name.”

The other woman laughed, but the light in her eyes was warm. “Names and nicknames are the same, really. Names are just what other people call you. They aren’t always who you are, not entirely. More like a starting place. Cináed is a good name for a fully grown man, but a mouthful for such a little boy. Cáel suits him, the lanky babe that he is. Were it only my parents had seen fit to allow me a suitable nickname in place of my own name. My childhood would have been much less trying for it.”

“You may have a point.” Loath as she was to admit it, Morrigan had not been brought up with other children, and did not know how a single child interacted with other children. If horrible nicknames were a part of that childhood that made it better or worse, then she would do well to follow the advice of those who had lived it, rather than base anything she did off Flemeth’s example. How her mother had managed to remain as detached as she had all those years, Morrigan had no idea. Try as she might, she could not imagine doing the same with her own children, even though one of them possessed the soul of an Old God, and the other she would have to give to his father in order to escape Flemeth. Taking Cáel with her would not be the best option for him. Cianán had a separate purpose and future, and did not need to be raised in the world of men. His brother, however, would be done an injustice if she were to take him. Her eyes flicked over toward the open aravel where all three infants slept within sight and hearing of both Morrigan and Panowen. She could barely make out their shadowy outlines in the darkness, grown so much in the two months since their birth. 

Almost as soon as she turned, a plaintive cry rose from the aravel. Morrigan immediately recognized it as Cáel’s and, with great determination, forced herself not to answer it. Instead, she remained seated, with more jealousy and in more pain than she would ever admit, as Panowen stepped over to feed and comfort the infant before his cries woke up the other two. The other woman graciously closed the door and window, but the needles still jabbed inside Morrigan’s chest as she returned her attention to the forgotten book in her lap.

“You do not want to leave him,” said Lanaya, appearing near the fire and taking a seat next to Morrigan.

“No, I do not. I had not anticipated how... difficult it would be.” Her fingers idly moved over the knotted pattern embossed into the book’s cover in an attempt to distance herself from her thoughts. “Not after observing my own mother throughout my childhood.”

“You are speaking of the golden mirror?”

“I am speaking of many such moments.” Another came to mind, of being sent on what had seemed a hopeless errand of helping two young Grey Wardens try to unite a country in order to combat the Blight. The two brothers had needed her help, certainly, for they would met with tragedy without the aid of a mage. But that Flemeth had sent her away so easily, that Flemeth had blown off Morrigan’s concerns of her mother’s well-being by reminding her that her home and mother could be dead and tainted when she returned. The realization had hurt, made more painful when she’d heard Flemeth tell the Wardens, _“I give you that which I value above all else in this world. I do this because you_ must _succeed.”_ She had thought, at the time, that Flemeth was referring to her. It was only later she’d discovered that Flemeth was referring only to her body and her own reassurance of her continued existence. And to think, she had been upset over her mother’s possible demise. A demise tat they had granted her months later, or so they had thought. If only it were that easily to kill a being such as Flemeth, to guarantee her safety and the safety of her children. The hope for that, she knew, rested in Cianán, for when he came into his full power. Until then, he was nothing but a mere mortal child.

Lanaya nodded once to herself. “Tomorrow, I am sending my First and a party of hunters back to Arlathan and the White Spire. The hunters I sent to Lydes returned with a group of dwarves who will be able to help in the recovery process. They’ll be able to tell if anything can be salvaged, and their ability with the stone will help expedite everything. That’s the intent, anyway. What we found there was too valuable not to make the effort, even as we try to recover what caches the records say exist. Once we enter the pass in the Frostbacks, I’ll have a hunter assigned to you at all times, just in case. There will be too many human travelers there. One might recognize you and take exception. The rumors of Tevinter and Ferelden troop movements the hunters brought back are too numerous to ignore.”

Morrigan arched an eyebrow. “I am able to protect myself. I am not without skills. It has been safe for me for some time to change my shape.” And how glorious it had felt, the first she she’d been able to change into the crow and take to the air. It had been far too long since she’d been able to freely exercise that skill. “And I know far more forms than the rather modest crow.”

“I’m well aware. This is not just for you, however, and you cannot be in more than one place at a time. That is a trick I have only seen _Asha’belannar_ accomplish.”

“My mother is also rather good at the trick of appearing dead, and yet not only being alive, but influencing things all across Thedas and the Fade. I am quite tired of dreaming of the events of the Blight. In particular, the events I’ve had to relive over the past week.”

Lanaya chuckled. “Reaching the end of the Blight again, are you? Those dreams always put you in a sour mood.”

“I did not like having to do what I did the first time, and I certainly do not like having to live it again. I tolerate it because it keeps me and my children out of Flemeth’s hands.” Yet, it was painful. It had hurt tremendously to make the request and suffer the rejection the first time, it had hurt even more to make the request of Zevran and follow through with the ritual the first time, and having to experience it night after night hadn’t done a thing to lessen the pain. The sequence would start over again in a few days, circling back to the start of the Blight, yet that lightened her mood only a little. Securing the soul of the Old God and leaving Malcolm was something she had only planned on experience a single time. And now, to protect herself and her children from being tracked by Flemeth, she had to live through falling in love with him over and over again, only to leave him in the end, every time without question, every time with the same outcome. If she had not fallen for him, this would not be so difficult. Everything would have been easier. Her gaze drifted to the aravel again. Cáel would not exist, either, if things had gone as planned, and that hurt more than anything else.

“He’s a beautiful child. They both are.” Lanaya smirked. “It must be their elven blood.”

“Of course. I cannot imagine it to be anything else.” Morrigan couldn’t help the droll reply or the amusement that accompanied it, despite her thoughts. Lanaya had that way about her, seeming to evoke good humor or cheerfulness where one thought they could avoid it. It reminded her, in a way, of those damnable Theirin men.

Lanaya suddenly stood. “Tomorrow we’ll start the final leg of our journey to Ferelden. We should be meeting Ariane and her hunters along the way, perhaps sooner than Gherlen’s Pass, depending on what they found in the Wilds. Either way, we’ll be departing early.”

“Cianán will be up. He’s always up just before sunrise.” It was something that reminded Morrigan of who the child’s mortal father was—the damnable assassin had always been up long before any of their other companions during the Blight. Up and about in the camp, and irritatingly cheerful in that smarmy way of his. It made her wonder what other personality traits she would find in the child as he grew, if he would take more from his mortal parents or if he would assume quirks and knowledge from the old soul within him. She had no way of knowing. Panowen had been a great help in establishing a proper sleep schedule, as much as it could be scheduled, for the infants. It had helped with everyone’s sanity. They would still occasionally waken during the night, but by and large, the tactics Panowen had employed in establishing almost normal sleeping habits had worked. This, Morrigan was told, was somewhat of a rare gift to be fully appreciated. There were still nights where one or all of the infants awakened, but they were few and far between compared to those first two weeks. 

Lanaya wished her good night, and then headed for her aravel.

In the morning, Morrigan found the Dalish hunter who was apparently to be her bodyguard of sorts waiting for her outside the aravel. The young woman stood near the dirt-covered firepit, practically bristling with resentment. “I did not want this assignment,” the woman told Morrigan as soon as eye contact was made.

“And I did not want you to have it,” said Morrigan. “I’m glad we are in agreement.” She adjusted the sling that secured Cianán to her front, and then took a second look at her new companion. Her bright red hair had been shaved nearly to her skull at the sides, with the rest left untouched in a long mohawk that ran along her scalp. At the base of her neck, the length was gathered into a ponytail. Morrigan resisted an outward flinch at seeing it, and at the risk of sounding like Leliana, decided that, in all honesty, the hunter’s choice of hairstyle was, at _best_ , unfortunate. She held in a sigh. Ariane would have been her first choice, but since she was still investigating the Wilds, she had no other ready choice. Morrigan supposed this hunter was at least good at the warrior part of hunting, or she would not have been given this assignment. 

Panowen did nothing to stifle her laughter as she hitched up the halla to the aravel. “And what would you rather be doing, Karam? Hunting down the humans who used to be werewolves to get revenge for them killing your mother?”

“Yes! She deserved better. Her killers should not have gotten away so easily.”

Panowen made a final adjustment and stepped away from the leather harness. “Those same werewolves killed my husband. You don’t see me longing to go after them.”

“You have a child.”

“I have responsibilities, and so do you. If revenge is sought, it’s your father who should be seeking it, not you. Athras is content to let things lie, and so should you. Danyla wouldn’t want you to live your life looking only for her revenge. Now, come help me move these infants.”

Karam made a face and Panowen glared at her until the younger woman relented. The days following went much the same, with Morrigan wishing desperately for Ariane’s return to be sooner rather than later, before she found herself berating and possibly maiming an overly irritating and resentful young elf. Lanaya explained after three unbearable days of travel that she’d assigned Karam to Morrigan in the hopes that she would learn to temper her anger and be softened by the presence of the children. Morrigan couldn’t help but think it was a test of her finite patience, and soon, she was going to set that woman’s hair on fire.

The closer the clan got to the border between Orlais and Ferelden, the more templars Morrigan noticed on the road. At first it was one or two, and then there were their parties of six, until one day when they passed an entire company comprised of at least one hundred templars. After that, Morrigan had been relegated to travel inside the aravel, lest she be spotted by a more observant templar. It did nothing to improve her mood, as she did not like to run and hide, and already she had to do that from Flemeth. She could easily stand and fight the templars. Admittedly, probably not an entire company, not unless shapechanging into a dragon was something inherited rather than learned.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how she looked at it, this meant more time spent with her sons—both of them. Usually Panowen kept her own daughter with her as she watched over the halla from the top of the aravel, with Karam riding beside her, on the lookout for trouble, readying to switch in when either Elin or Cáel needed to be fed. While Morrigan found that she was no less enamored with either one of her sons, she knew that every moment she spent with Cáel was stolen and the availability for those moments would have a definite end.  It became a torture to resist the urges to touch him, to lay a hand upon his soft hair, and by the time they passed the entrance to Orzammar and were officially in Ferelden, she’d entirely given up the pretense of resisting. There was no point in continuing the charade. Her attempts at being completely detached had obviously failed, much as they had with his father. Part of her wondered if it was an inherited trait.

Once across the border, they saw no more legions of templars as they had in Orlais, and Morrigan was able to move about freely, riding on top of the aravel if she so chose, or wandering about the nightly camp if she wanted. One campsite just outside the pass that overlooked Lake Calenhad was a popular one. Not only did it have the Dalish clan with the halla and aravels, but quite a few surface dwarves, Fereldan soldiers, and, if she wasn’t mistaken, Grey Wardens, though she didn’t recognize any of them. A closer inspection conducted by a surprising quiet Karam brought confirmation of griffon heraldry on their tabards. “There’s three humans, two men and a woman, all talking with the soldiers about many things. They don’t like the templars’ presence at the border any more than you did,” Karam said to Morrigan in the aravel. “They’re expecting someone else to meet them here. Someone important enough that they feel the need to be extra vigilant in their watches. I think they might mean the human king of this land.”

“That many templars massing would be a threat to the kingdom, so I could see why Alistair would need to address the situation.” Morrigan pursed her lips in thought. “Did you hear when he would arrive? I cannot risk him seeing me. He will ask questions.”

“You could simply not answer them, like you usually do.”

Morrigan sighed, amused despite the situation. “If you think he would give up as easily as the next person, then you do not know Alistair.”

Karam scowled. “Of course I don’t know the shemlen king.”

She didn’t bother attempting to explain that it was a figure of speech, not when Karam was so determined to take offense, as she usually was. Instead, Morrigan said nothing, determining that she would go inspect things herself. “Keep watch over the babes. I shall return shortly.” Then Morrigan stepped from the aravel, shifted into a crow, and took to the trees. She flew across the entire camp, from the Dalish end to the dwarves, and finally to where the human soldiers had set up near the Wardens. Even with closer inspection, Morrigan did not recognize any of them. The one who seemed to be in charge looked to be appropriately serious about his task, his grey eyes solemn to the point of approaching broody. The woman wasn’t far behind in seriousness, and the younger, male Warden seemed uneasy. New, then, Morrigan realized, newer than the other two, at least. After listening to them speak in low tones with captain of the soldiers in the camp, she had their names. This Nathaniel bore watching, and this Mhairi seemed a bit of a bore. 

“Will the King be arriving tonight?” Mhairi asked the captain.

“That’s what the messenger said. He’s got an entire retinue, though, and with that Dalish clan around, there’s not enough room for the King and all his people to camp here overnight if that’s what they’re intending. I sent a messenger back already to let him know. So he might just pop up for a visit on his own, or you Wardens can go down there to see him if you like.”

“We could just tell the knife-ears to leave,” said the younger Warden, earning him a sour look from Mhairi.

Nathaniel, in addition to a glare, had words to say about the comment. “You forget yourself, Warden. Or have you already forgotten that brother and sister Wardens of yours happen to be elves? It seems you have. For that, you’re on duty with the soldiers unlucky enough to be digging latrines. Go.”

“But—”

“Go.”

Muttering under his breath, the Warden stalked off toward the far edge of the camp to join the soldiers in their unenviable, yet necessary task of trench digging. 

Nathaniel watched him with eyes as hard as slate before turning back to the captain. “If you could, please let the King know that Mhairi and I will visit him if he wishes to camp separately.”

The captain’s eyes flickered over toward the side of the camp where the tops of the Dalish aravels were visible. “You aren’t worried about them Dalish?”

“No. They’re people and they’re travelers, just like the rest of us. So if no one does anything to them, they won’t do anything to us.”

The captain didn’t look reassured as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I understand, ser, but I heard what happened in the Wending Wood—”

“If what you heard is making you afraid of Dalish elves, then what you heard was wrong.” Nathaniel’s glare had yet to relent. “That situation was started by a human and a coward.”

“What if they want to finish it?”

“You can’t even know if it’s the same clan. You have no idea. Besides, it’s already finished. The man responsible has been executed. Just keep your men away from the Dalish and I’m certain they will do the same.”

The captain didn’t seem convinced, but he gave Nathaniel a slight shrug. “All right. You’ve worked with the Dalish, so I guess you’d know. I’ll get that messenger sent out.”

“No, no, nevermind. Mhairi and I will go ourselves, instead. Otho is under your command until I return later tonight.”

Curious, Morrigan followed the two Wardens as they rode to another camp a few miles away to meet with Alistair. She was careful to remain fairly high in the sky, but did nothing to entirely hide her presence. To them, she was nothing but any other crow, and perhaps not even the same crow they’d caught a glimpse of earlier. The King had apparently already received the message from the captain, because his camp was in the midst of being set up when the two Wardens arrived. Alistair was summoned out of a good-sized tent, and Morrigan had to admit that there were benefits to being the King of Ferelden if he traveled with such accommodations. The tent was a far sight better than anything any of them had slept in during the Blight. In the almost two years that had passed since the end of the Blight, Morrigan could see that Alistair hadn’t changed much physically. His physique was much the same, kept in strong fighting condition as would benefit the king of a country like Ferelden. His eyes had changed, however, becoming a little more guarded than before, and, if she wasn’t mistaken, they might even have contained a little wisdom. It seemed the foolish young Warden-turned-King could learn after all. The part of her that still loved Malcolm felt proud of his brother. She quickly quelled that feeling. She did not need more weakness in her life. Both of her sons were weakness enough.

Introductions were made outside the tent, and Morrigan hoped they would continue their conversation outside, since she had no form that could easily sneak inside the tent should they choose to go there.

As it turned out, the choice was not left to her. As soon as they finished their greetings, Morrigan watched from a tree branch as Nathaniel held up a hand toward Alistair then rapidly pulled out his bow—strung before they’d started their short journey on horseback—nocked an arrow, and then turned and fired.

Directly at Morrigan. 

With a gasp of surprise that came out as a squawk, she took to the air, but the arrow went through her right wing, sending her tumbling to the ground. She landed in the soft grass in her human form, unable to hold the crow’s shape while injured. Bright red blood started to drip from an arrow embedded in her forearm and she frowned at the development. At least her staff hadn’t been broken and she went for it with her left hand as she struggled to her feet. Alistair would not be happy about what she’d done to his brother, and she doubted he would want to hear any of her reasoning before launching into a long-winded shouting match. She had a child to feed in another couple of hours, and another child to spend time with waiting for her back at the Dalish camp, and she would not let this man stop her from returning to them.

As soon as her stave came out, a smite hit her, draining away her mana. Though Alistair had summoned the smite, he stood before her without weapons. Next to him was Nathaniel, another arrow nocked and ready in his bow, and Mhairi, sword and shield at the ready. “How did you know?” Alistair asked Nathaniel.

“We’ve been having a problem with crows, your Majesty,” Nathaniel replied. “Especially yellow-eyed crows.”

 _Flemeth._ She should have known her mother would somehow be involved. 

Alistair nodded, and then turned a critical gaze on Morrigan. “You don’t look much different,” he said after a length of time. “Well, the arrow in your arm is new. Your clothing has changed, as well. Not quite as... showy as it once was.” His eyes widened slightly as he did a double take when he happened to linger on her breasts. “Those got bigger.”

She held in an exasperated sigh. Of course he would notice that development straight away. In truth, her adjustment in what she wore came from the practicality needed when responsible for the care and feeding of an infant, though she would not tell Alistair that. “And you still look like a fool.”

He chuckled, doing nothing to hide his amusement at her expense, which did nothing to allay her temper. “Still the same Morrigan, I see.” He crossed his arms. “So, what brings you here to spy on us? I had thought that after what happened with my brother, I would be so lucky as to never see you again.”

“Were it so easy.”  The arrow in her arm was truly beginning to hurt and it needed to be tended to, yet she did not want to communicate that weakness to Alistair or these Wardens. 

Alistair glanced over at the others. “You can put away your weapons. She’s of no danger to us. She’s been drained.”

Morrigan bristled at the implication that she wasn’t dangerous, but as much as she wanted it not to be, it was the truth. It could be at least an hour before she would be able to shapeshift, or, more importantly, heal herself. The arrow shaft had done a good job at keeping the bleeding at a minimum, but it would have to come out. If she couldn’t heal it right away, she would not be able to fly, and she had no horse to ride the five or so miles back to the Dalish camp. It wasn’t a distance of consequence, normally, but she had the added pressure of time, of very tiny people who depended on her. “I had no intention of harming you in the first place. ‘Tis you who harmed me first.”

“You’ll have to forgive my wariness, then, my lady,” Nathaniel said to her as he ducked his head in the mockery of a bow before tucking away his bow. “But we’ve sighted a crow far more dangerous than you following us about before. I wasn’t taking any chances.”

She couldn’t fault him for that. She would have done the same. Better to strike at your enemy first, lest they strike you. Especially if said enemy happened to be Flemeth. Morrigan wanted to cross her arms, but the arrow shaft—it was certainly hurting now—was in the way. She nodded almost imperceptibly to Nathaniel, and then looked at Alistair again. “What is it that you want?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one who was eavesdropping on us, Morrigan, not the other way around. Why the spying? Why not just show yourself? You’ve never been one for games when direct confrontation could be had.”

She supposed she could’ve been patient with Alistair, since she’d learned how during the Blight, for Malcolm’s sake. Another part of her reminded her that this man standing before her was her son’s family by blood, and that he must be tolerated because of that, as well. “I had no wish to converse with you. It was merely curiosity that made me follow.”

“Curiosity about what?” asked Nathaniel.

“What your king means to do about the number of templars gathered on Ferelden’s border.”

Alistair blinked and peered at her again. “You’re aware that those templars are after _you_ , right? They’re insisting I let them in to conduct a search so that they can apprehend you, claiming that you are a highly dangerous blood mage.”

“You cannot truly be contemplating handing me over to them, Alistair. I am no blood mage.” If her magic had been with her, it would have flared at the threat of being handed over to the templars. Since she’d been drained of it, the only thing that flared was her temper, and her desire to escape.


	82. Chapter 82

**Chapter 82**

“Like dragons they fly; glory upon wings.

Like dragons they savage; fearsome, pretty things.”

— _unknown Elvhenan poet_

**Morrigan**

The flap to one of the other tents opened and a woman Morrigan had not seen in two years stepped out. “And here I thought my old mind was playing tricks on me,” said Wynne. Her healer-trained eyes went immediately to the injury and she clucked her tongue. “You could at least see to her wounds before you question her. Maleficar or not, she deserves to have her injury treated instead of ignored and possibly allowed to fester.” Without so much as asking permission, Wynne’s hands were on Morrigan’s arm, examining the wound with sight and touch. 

The wound had begun to hurt enough that Morrigan did not object to either Wynne’s presence or her handling. Alistair caught on, and a slight flush of embarrassment formed on his cheeks. “I hadn’t noticed. I apologize.”

Morrigan ignored it, wanting to make it clear that she was not a blood mage, especially to a fellow mage, Circle-bound or not. “I am not a maleficar, Wynne. You should know this. You have heard my stance on blood magic more than once.”

It wasn’t Wynne who answered, but Alistair. “A maleficar need not always be a blood mage. Considering what you’ve done, I’m not so sure you’re exempt from being named one.”

 She arched an eyebrow at the king. Perhaps he’d matured in mind more than she’d suspected. “Not a distinction I’d thought you able to make, Alistair.”

“There are a lot of things I’ve been able to do that I never thought possible. Such as keeping myself from shouting at you thus far, for one.”

“If you feel you must bellow and bluster, go right ahead. It does not matter to me what you think.”

Wynne motioned for Nathaniel, and the Warden came over, helping the mage with breaking off the end of the arrow. “You should probably sit down for this, my lady,” Nathaniel said to Morrigan.

She frowned at him. What was he going on about with his honorifics? However, he was right. Having an arrow removed from one’s body was never something you could take with any sort of grace, and if she was going to escape from this predicament, she needed to be healed. That meant accepting the aid Wynne offered. Morrigan acquiesced with a slight nod. The small group moved into the tent belonging to the king, and Wynne had Morrigan sit on a cot that Alistair quickly cleared of anything he didn’t want stained with blood. Once Morrigan was braced, she told Nathaniel to remove the arrow. He worked quickly, pulling the remnant of the shaft out of her arm, and then clamping a rag over the puncture wound it left behind. Wynne brushed him aside and applied her healing magic, knitting the wound back together from the inside out, leaving not even a scar once she was done.

It was still a skill that Morrigan envied. She suspected she would need it more than ever as her children— _child_ —grew, and she would have to deal with everything from skinned knees to broken arms from falling out of trees. “Thank you,” she said to Wynne as the other woman stepped away.

“You are welcome, though it’s not because of you that I helped, but for the child I know you must be caring for. Where is it?” Wynne’s look was both calculated and concerned, a strange combination.

“Safe.” Morrigan sat up and folded her hands in her lap. “He is safe. That is all you need know.” She wondered if she should tell them of Cáel, but it was something she wanted to share with Malcolm herself. It was selfish, she knew, and exposed her weakness, but it was what she wanted. One last thing to give to him before she left and never saw him or their son again. From that moment onward, she would concentrate on Cianán and their eventual confrontation with Flemeth.

“A boy, then.” Alistair nodded as if acknowledging the fact, and then looked at her. “Zevran’s?”

“The elf provided me with what I needed, yes, but the child is mine.”

“It isn’t like he’s around to make claims on the boy, Morrigan. Zevran’s dead. There’s no need for you to act like he’s going to jump from the shadows and demand rights to the child. We get it. The boy is yours. No one is arguing that point.” Alistair leaned down to her. “But what I need to know is if your child is a danger to the people I’m supposed to protect.”

She scoffed. “He is a child.” Cianán was no danger to anyone until he came into his full magic. As long as she trained him properly, raised him properly, he would never pose a danger to anyone except for Flemeth.

Alistair rolled his eyes. “You know what I meant. This son of yours has the soul of an Old God, right?”

“Yes. The ritual was successful.”

“And Old Gods become archdemons.” He made his statement as if he were speaking to a particularly slow child.

Morrigan did not appreciate his tone. “Only if they are tainted by the darkspawn, and I have no intentions of that ever happening.” She would kill him before that happened. It would kill her, as well, to have to do that to her son, but his death would be far better than life as one of those abominations. She would never allow her son to suffer such a thing, not if she could help it. “He has not attracted any attention from the darkspawn in over two months of his being alive, so as long as I remain out of the Deep Roads, he should be safe. Unless you, as a Warden, hear a song from him.”

Alistair’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I’d forgotten exactly how many of the Grey Warden secrets you knew. No, no Warden has heard anything from your son, no songs, no nothing.” He stood suddenly and started to pace. “What is it that you’re doing here in Ferelden?”

“Escaping my mother.” She turned to the contemplative Nathaniel, who stood next to the tent’s wall. “She has been hunting you, for you to be shooting arrows at random crows?”

“Observing, more like,” Nathaniel said, not showing any surprise that she’d spoken directly to him. “Sometimes we would see yellow-eyed crows in the trees, or at least think we had seen them. The real problems were in the Fade.” For a moment, it seemed he was going to go on explaining, but he stopped short at a curt shake of Alistair’s head. He nodded at the King, and then said to Morrigan, “Yes. Flemeth has been hunting, here and in the Fade.”

So that was the game they were going to play. No one was going to mention Malcolm, but she did get enough information from what Nathaniel had and hadn’t said. While she would continue to keep both of her sons concealed from these people as best she could, she would not play any sort of game where they all pretended that the issue of her past involvement with Malcolm didn’t exist. Morrigan shifted her gaze from Nathaniel to pin down the pacing Alistair. “Tell me, Alistair. Does Flemeth hunt Malcolm in the Fade?”

Alistair halted to stare at her. “Why do you even care?

“‘That is not a conversation I am willing to have with you.” She would _not_ speak of any of her weaknesses with witnesses present. She wouldn’t admit them to Malcolm’s brother, and she would not admit them to any other person present, not when she could barely admit them to herself. 

“I don’t suppose it is.” He sighed. “He’s had dreams of dragons and crows that turn into Flemeth, and he thinks they might really be her.”

“He would be correct.” She would not allow herself to ask Alistair where Malcolm was, even though she wanted to know. While she told herself that she only wanted to know in order to determine the level of threat Flemeth posed to them all, she wasn’t convinced by her reasoning. There was more than a hint of truth in what he tried to believe, but far more of the truth rested in her interest in Malcolm’s well-being. 

Alistair’s look became soft for a moment and his voice seemed gentle when he said, “He’s looking for you.” Then, just as quickly, his features hardened. “Not sure why. Maybe he likes being repeatedly kicked in the emotional gut.”

Morrigan didn’t deign to answer. There wasn’t one that wouldn’t result in a prolonged, loud argument, and she hadn’t time for it. She had, perhaps, two hours, if even that, before her son would need to be fed. If she regained her magic within the hour, there wouldn’t be difficulty in returning before she was in pain. If it went beyond the two hours, however, matters would become more than awkward, especially given the company. The only person whom she thought could handle the situation with any grace would be Wynne, yet she had no desire to bond with the older woman at all. She did not need Wynne’s special brand of mothering.

“That isn’t why he’s looking for her, your Majesty,” said Nathaniel. “You know as well as I do that he’s trying to find her before the templars or the Tevinters do. While we’ve not yet seen the Tevinters show themselves, the reason you’re here at the pass is because of the reports of templar armies massing on the Orlesian side of the border.”

“Alistair, remember? Call me Alistair, since I’m only a fellow Grey Warden to any other Warden.” After Nathaniel nodded, Alistair ran a weary hand over his face before turning to Morrigan once more. “Setting all of that aside, why are you here? Are you seeking asylum from the templars?”

She studied him for a moment, trying to understand if she’d heard correctly, in how he’d asked the question, that if she asked, he would provide said asylum. Considering what had happened between them, the idea that he would help took her by surprise. “I am endeavoring to continue to evade them, certainly, but I do not require any sort of official asylum. Whatever allows me to escape my mother will also allow me to escape the far shorter arms of the Chantry.”

“That doesn’t exactly answer my question.”

“Then let me be perfectly clear: I do not need your help. I do not want it, nor do I require it. I will be perfectly happy to never cross paths with you again.” She stood up on feeling the return of her magic. Good. She could make her escape. “Now, if you would excuse me, I have things to do, none of which involve you, Alistair, or any of your friends.”

Alistair held his arms at his sides, an unobtrusive action to most, but to someone who had fought at his side for the better part of a year, it was easily recognizable that he was preparing a holy smite. “You really think I’m just going to let you walk out of here?”

“Do you really think I would let you stop me? I have no wish to harm you, surprising at that may be to you, but should you get in my way, I will not hesitate to act.” She would not allow anyone to keep her from her children. Not Flemeth, and certainly not a mortal, human king.

He tilted his head to the side in puzzlement. “What’s so important for you to get back to? If you’ll just stay and talk, I won’t smite you.”

“Are you really that feeble-minded? I do not have the time to stay for a chat with you, even if I were so inclined, which I am most decidedly not.”

Alistair opened his mouth to ask what Morrigan assumed would be another stupid question, but Wynne stopped him with an upraised hand. “Alistair, she has an infant waiting for her, I assume. He will need to be fed, and that cannot be done unless she is there.”

“Why not—oh. _Oh_.” Alistair blushed. “Wouldn’t be good for me to keep you from that, would it? But I have so many questions... everyone does. I need to know where you’re going. If you tell me that much, I will allow you to go without a fight.”

She crossed her arms, deliberating on what to do. If she cooperated, her escape from Alistair’s grasp would be faster and easier, and lead to less bloodshed. Considering how Malcolm felt about his brother, she would prefer not to spill his blood, as irritating as he could be. Then again, if she told him where she and the Dalish intended on going, he might see fit to interfere. However, Alistair, though at times it could appear otherwise, was not as dumb as he so often seemed. If she could explain her plans to him, he would see reason. “Drake’s Fall.”

“Why there?”

“I do not have time to explain everything to you right at this moment. Suffice to say that it will provide me with an almost permanent method of escape from my mother.”

“While you might think it’s a good idea, there is a problem.”

She readied for a fight, her fingers curling slightly as she summoned her magic. “You cannot—”

He held up his open hands, palms out, to ward off her anger. “I’m not trying to stop you for the sake of—”

Morrigan decided that Alistair was far, far more impossible than his brother. “Yes, you—”

Nathaniel stepped in between them. “There are darkspawn up there. That is why you cannot go, not if you bring your son with you. They will taint him.”

“Also,” Alistair said from behind the other Warden, “there might be a dragon.” Nathaniel stepped aside as Alistair continued, “Not Flemeth, but a high dragon nonetheless. She’s missing half a tail, though, so she might be even angrier than your mother, if that’s possible.”

Morrigan wanted to object, but it wouldn’t make Alistair’s warning any less needed. “This is a problem. It is well into spring, however, nearing upon full summer. If the dragon has not rampaged, it might not be there.”

“Still doesn’t solve the problem of the darkspawn,” said Nathaniel.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that not the purview of your illustrious order? Are Grey Wardens not around to rid the world of the darkspawn’s tainted kind? Do your job, Warden, and there will not be a problem.” She would also never admit it, but she did hold a tiny bit of resentment toward Nathaniel for shooting her with an arrow.

He met her hardened gaze without flinching. “We have done our job, my lady. We were there in the autumn, making sure that an entrance to the Deep Roads up there was closed. Since the spring thaw, there have been Wardens and dwarves up in those mountains creating a proper and permanent seal to that entrance. They should be done within the month.”

“Then I should not have any problems.” Though she spoke with bravado, she knew that were Grey Wardens not already in place at Drake’s Fall, she would have arranged with Alistair or Nathaniel to have them there. Since they already were, she did not have to request their help at all, especially so soon after informing them that she expressly did not require Alistair’s aid.

Alistair frowned. “I don’t like it.”

“You do not need to. What you need do is deal with it.”

He rubbed at his chin, where that infernal scruff had not yet been scraped away. “If you’re insisting on going, I want to go with you.”

“No,” said Morrigan.

At the same time, Nathaniel said, “Absolutely not.”

“You would think you would have learned your lesson the first time you went up there,” said Wynne, moving her look of disapproval off Morrigan and onto Alistair.

He met Wynne’s gaze, though he did look a bit like a scolded puppy. “If Malcolm were here, he would insist on going.”

“He isn’t the King of Ferelden,” said Nathaniel. “And you’re expected to deal with the templars on the border, not follow an apostate on whatever whim she’s chosen.”

“You say that as if I want him to follow along. I do not.” Morrigan very much did not want Alistair tagging along. He would never cease with his questions, he would hang about, and he would eventually discover his nephew’s existence. While she recognized that Alistair would eventually come to know about Cáel, she wanted Malcolm to know before. Even among the Dalish, only Lanaya knew who Cáel’s father really was. Luckily, the Dalish did not speculate over or even care about anything to do with human nobility. As such, she’d not yet had to deal with questions Cáel’s obviously Theirin features were sure to bring. From the determined look that had taken to shining in Alistair’s eyes, getting out of this situation without Alistair somehow remaining in her company was going to be problematic.

It might even require bloodshed to escape. Unfortunate, but necessary.

“Oh no, don’t even think about it,” Alistair said, having caught her shift in expression. “I really don’t want to smite you—okay, I do, but I don’t want anything to happen to the innocent child waiting on you wherever it is you need to go back to.” He paused. “Where are you staying, anyway? You wouldn’t have left him alone, would you?”

She scoffed. “Of course not. I am not my mother.”

“Are you still traveling with the Dalish, then?” asked Nathaniel. 

“Yes.” She kept an annoyed sigh to herself. “I have a child to return to. Now that we are agreed that Alistair should not accompany me to Drake’s Fall, is there even a point to your continued questioning?”

“We agreed to no such thing,” said Alistair. “I said I was going, and the rest of you disagreed.”

“You aren’t your brother,” said Wynne.

“No, I’m not. Thank the Maker.”

Morrigan thought that Alistair looked just as grateful as she felt at that particular revelation of Wynne’s. Had things gone differently during the Blight, Malcolm wouldn’t have been a choice at all, Zevran would not have been made a Warden, and she could have been stuck with trying to bed Alistair for the ritual. However, given the choice between Alistair and the remaining other newish Warden, Oghren, at least Alistair was easy on the eyes, much like his brother. The idea of having to bed _Oghren_ made her want to claw out her own eyes and scrape clean her brainpan. She barely kept herself from shivering. “Alistair, you would be most useful in this endeavor if you would attend to the matter of the templars, as was your intention before you discovered me.” She threw a glare in Nathaniel’s direction to let him know that she had not forgotten the injury inflicted on her person by his uncaring arrow. Then she returned to Alistair. “Now, will you allow things to proceed as they were intended?”

Alistair’s spine straightened and he drew himself to his full height. “Not going to work. I’m serious about this. I’m going with you.”

Morrigan recognized the stance. It was the same one she had seen many of the clan’s toddlers assume just before a temper tantrum. Alistair had much the same propensity when he set his mind on an idea. She waved a hand as if to dismiss his determination. “We need not discuss it now. What I do need is to return to my child.”

“She will need to go soon, Alistair,” said Wynne.

Morrigan was at once grateful and more irritated at Wynne’s interference. She flexed her fingers and stopped herself from crossing her arms again. 

Alistair slightly relaxed his posture. “All right. I assume since you were close enough to attempt to spy on us that you’re traveling with the Dalish clan in Gherlen’s Pass? And don’t look so surprised that I could make that supposition, either. I’m not stupid. I’ve told you that before.”

She gave in and sighed. “Yes. That clan is also accompanying me to Drake’s Fall.”

“I would at least like to speak with you about your plans. Where you intend on going and how you intend on getting there, for instance, since you’re so sure this plan of yours will get you out of Flemeth’s reach. Should I be visiting you with the Dalish or will you deign to return here after you’ve taken care of your son?”

Morrigan didn’t particularly want Alistair to assume she was at his beck and call, but she also didn’t want him to accidentally catch sight of Cáel. She was nearly resigned to the prospect of him meeting Cianán, and that was enough give on her part already. “I will return here.”

“And I have your word?”

“My word?” When he didn’t relent, she bit back on another sigh. “Fine. I will return here to speak with you within three hours.” She believed that would be long enough to attend matters. If not, the King of Ferelden would just have to wait. Infants were far more demanding than he could ever be, and certainly warranted more attention than he ever would. “I give you my word.”

“The Queen should be back from Orzammar and her meeting with King Bhelen by then,” said Wynne. 

Queen? Morrigan felt her brow quirking. She hadn’t known that Alistair had taken a wife. After what had happened with the bard, she wasn’t sure he’d have it in him. Interesting.

Alistair nodded at Wynne, and then turned back to Morrigan. “If you aren’t here in three hours, I’ll come find you, King or no. As King, I need to know what your plans are and how they will affect the people of Ferelden. And...” he trailed off and shifted uncomfortably, going from regal king to little boy almost instantly. “And my brother would want me to find out.”

“He has a name. I am certain he would appreciate you using it.”

“If he were here, I would use it. Except he isn’t here because he’s out looking for you, while you’re right here in our home country.”

Though Morrigan was never one to back down from a good argument with Alistair, she knew when she was being baited and would not fall for it. “No, I will not get into such things with you. Not right now.” With that, she brushed past the King and left the tent, snatching up her stave on her way out. Then she shifted into a crow and flew back to the Dalish camp.

On returning to the night’s camp, she found it in an excited state in which she’d not left it. Not only were the human soldiers in a tizzy, but so were the dwarves, and even the Dalish. When Morrigan stepped into the part of the large campsite that could properly be called for the elves, she discovered the reason behind the excitement. In the middle of the small clearing, standing next to the campfire, she saw Keeper Lanaya speaking with a woman Morrigan had met a few times near the end of the Blight—Anora, once the Queen of Ferelden. Near the two of them stood a confused-looking Panowen and a surly Karam, though, for Karam, that particular countenance was not unusual. Karam held an unsure Cianán, while Panowen held Cáel, obvious to Morrigan that she had just finished feeding him. Cianán did not yet seem hungry, though that would change within half an hour, she was certain. Her attention went back to Anora, noticing that while she spoke with Lanaya, her gaze kept skipping over to Cáel or Cianán. 

Anora had noticed. 

Morrigan felt at once protective and curious about what Anora was even doing here in the first place. She could see a few human bodyguards posted about, seemingly in the regalia of Royal Guards. Was Anora still playing at being Queen? Or had—that had to be it. Alistair had married her. It seemed the elder brother had more gumption than she’d thought. That question settled in her mind, she stalked forward, ready to deal with this woman who seemed determined to stay Queen of Ferelden. “A royal visit?” Morrigan asked as she stepped into the bright ring of light cast by the fire. “That is not something I thought the Queen did with the Dalish.”

Anora halted in mid-sentence and turned to face the newcomer. If she was surprised, she did not show it. “Morrigan.”

“Anora.”

Lanaya looked between the two of them. “So you two know each other?”

“We’ve not spoken at length,” Anora said in her almost grating light, diplomatic tone. “But we do know of each other and have seen one another before. I also know of the company she kept during the Blight.”

“Company I no longer keep, so it would be better if you kept the aspersions you wish to cast to yourself.” Morrigan folded her arms across her chest and evenly planted her feet. The Queen rated no higher to her than the King, and if she meant to threaten either of her sons, she would give no ground.

“Let us not dance around this, Morrigan. I know you were expecting a child when you left the company of the Grey Wardens at the end of the Fifth Blight. That much I have been told by the King.” She pointed at Cianán. “That child is obviously yours. Is the other as well?”

“For all you speak of plainness, your question is not plain. And if you are prepared to ask the question you truly wish to ask, if you want an honest answer, your guards must make themselves very scarce.” Anora, given a proper answer, would not gossip. It was below queens, and there was not a single moment of any day that Anora would ever think herself less. The guards, however, gossiped like none other. She would not have that, not while she could still be the one to tell Malcolm about his son. This also assumed that Anora would not proclaim the boy to be property of the heirless state of Ferelden. If she chose that route, Morrigan could not guarantee the other woman’s safety. 

“You are safe amongst the Dalish, your Majesty,” said Lanaya. 

Anora gave the keeper a tight nod, and then shifted her gaze to her guards. “Go. Wait outside the camp. I will not come to harm here. And you cannot forget Adalla’s presence.” She motioned toward a brown mabari nearby, who barked happily in reply. 

Morrigan found herself feeling an odd sort of respect for Anora at one of the intelligent breed choosing to imprint upon her.

Once the Royal Guards had left, Anora returned her attention to Morrigan. “Now, I will ask my question as plainly as you request: is that other child the Prince’s?”

Morrigan lifted her chin. “Yes.”

“The King must know.”

“The King does not need to know yet. Your so-called Prince should be the first to know amongst human Fereldans, but you have spoiled that wish with your curiosity. Tell me, how is it that you came to visit this Dalish camp?”

Anora blinked once, the only sign that she’d been put off by the question. “I was returning from a diplomatic visit to Orzammar, if you must know. When I was informed that a Dalish clan was camping here for the night, I had wondered if they were Líadan’s clan, and stopped to see. No one would answer my question at first, and I was brought to Keeper Lanaya. She’s since explained where the Mahariel are. But by then, I had seen your children.” The last word seemed difficult for Anora to say and she stumbled over it, a glaring mistake for a woman who normally spoke so precisely. “It is very obvious that the one is yours. Is it also—”

“No. His father is the assassin. More, I will not tell you.”

“I am sure there’s more to this and that it involves the Grey Wardens somehow, but I will keep my questions.”

“Then I will keep my temper.”

Anora glanced back at Cáel. “It—”

“He. He is not an ‘it.’ He is also a person, however small he might be.” Why she felt to defensive of the child, Morrigan couldn’t rightly name, but she would not hear of this woman referring to her son as an ‘it.’ 

“I’m sorry, I did not mean—he just looks so startlingly like a painting I once saw of the Rebel Queen as a babe. It was recovered from Arl Eamon’s estate after the Occupation. I remember seeing it several times as a girl. The resemblance is remarkable.”

“So he happens to take after his great-grandmother. Good for him.” Admittedly, it was far better for Cáel to take after Moira the Rebel Queen than it was for him to take after Flemeth.

Anora looked at Morrigan again. “I am surprised that you acknowledge his royal blood.”

“I can only hold on to him for so long before I will have to let go. However, that day has not yet reached us because I have yet to see his father.”

“You would give him up so easily?”

“Easily? No. Give him up? Yes. I have a place to go where he cannot follow. His place will be to remain here with his father, when that time comes. I am sure you will be overjoyed. I gather the pressure will be off you to produce an heir, will it not?” Morrigan took a strange sort of pride that she had managed a feat that a queen had not after years of trying.

Anora did not answer Morrigan’s question, apparently recognizing it for the thinly-veiled insult that it was. “When will this time be? I cannot keep this from the King for very long. Were it the King’s son, I could not keep it from him for any length of time. That would be treason. This is treading a very fine line.”

“You would wait?” Morrigan’s surprise rang clearly in her tone.

She nodded. “For a time, yes. Malcolm deserves to know first, if it can be done. I’m not so sure that it can, but I am willing to try, for his sake.”

“I’ve been informed that he is looking for me. I suspect he will find me soon, how I know this, I cannot tell you.” She would not divulge the power of the ring Malcolm held to anyone. “Your husband the King is waiting for you some miles down the pass. I met with him earlier, over other matters. He can brief you. I have a child to feed, and then I will return. There are plans that we must all discuss.” When Anora didn’t look convinced of her dismissal, Morrigan repressed yet another sigh of exasperation. “I have already spoken with Alistair once today about other matters that tangentially relate to the matters that most concern you. I plan on speaking with him again, and the plan was for you to be there. However, there are things I must do first. Three hours hence.” Morrigan refused Anora the honorific if her title. If she would not call Alistair by his, this woman certainly did not deserve it, either.

“Very well.” As Anora turned and gave her farewells to Keeper Lanaya, Morrigan stepped over to fetch Cianán from Karam’s arms. The boy was already beginning to fuss, and it would not do to have him break into a full cry. 

As she fed her son inside the aravel, Morrigan watched through a window as Anora gathered her guards near the entrance of the Dalish camp, casting one last, seemingly wistful look at Cáel before turning to depart. Panowen took the moment to depart with the boy before anyone else became curious about the other human child living amongst the Dalish.

Soldiers came running up to Anora and her guards from the human side of the camp, and instead of leaving, they spoke excitedly to the queen. Behind those soldiers came two people Morrigan recognized—Nathaniel and Mhairi. As the group talked, Morrigan finished tending to her son’s needs, and then settled him in for the night. It was fortuitous that she had, because the moment she stepped out of the aravel, both Anora and Nathaniel were heading in her direction, each with a mild look of alarm on their faces. Judging from how each of them tended to act, for anyone else, it would have meant an all-out panic. When they were within reasonable talking distance, Morrigan asked, “What is wrong?”

Nathaniel gave Anora a questioning look, and she nodded, giving him permission to speak. The Warden faced Morrigan. “You recall the dragon that the King spoke of earlier?”

“Yes. I do not see what this—”

He held up a hand to forestall her objections. “It’s come out of Drake’s Fall and is on a rampage through Highever.”


	83. Chapter 83

**Chapter 83**

“Long ago, the Ashkaari lived in a great city by the sea. Wealth and prosperity shone upon the city like sunlight, and still its people grumbled in discontent. The Ashkaari walked the streets of his home and saw that all around him were the signs of genius: triumphs of architecture, artistic masterpieces, the palaces of wealthy merchants, libraries, and concert halls. But he also saw signs of misery: the poor, sick, lost, frightened, and the helpless. And the Ashkaari asked himself, ‘How can one people be both wise and ignorant, great and ruined, triumphant and despairing?’

So the Ashkaari left the land of his birth, seeking out other cities and nations, looking for a people who had found wisdom enough to end hopelessness and despair. He wandered for many years through empires filled with palaces and gardens, but in every nation of the wise, the great, the might, he found the forgotten, the abandoned, and the poor. Finally, he came to a vast desert, a wasteland of bare rock clawing at the empty sky, where he took shelter in the shadow of a towering rock, and resolved to meditate until he found his answer or perished.

Many days passed until one night, as he gazed out from the shadow of the rocks, he saw the lifeless desert awaken. A hundred thousand locusts hatched from the barren ground, and as one, they turned south, a single wave of moving earth. The Ashkaari rose and followed in their wake: a path of devastation miles wide, the once verdant land turned to waste. And the Ashkaari’s eyes were opened.”

—an excerpt from _The Qun_ , Canto 1

**Alistair**

The camp higher up on the pass was already in an uproar when Alistair arrived. The messengers from the northern coast had stopped at his camp first, and then the King had sent them ahead to the other camp before ordering the strike of his own. Better to cramp quarters a bit and join with the others to get a proper plan hammered out than travel back and forth between the two camps. If someone was that determined to kill him, then they just would, and his brother could suck it up and become King in his place. Nathaniel and Mhairi had chosen to ride with the messengers, and up to Orzammar if they didn’t cross paths with Anora on the road.

The Fereldan soldiers were huddled into various groups throughout the evening camp. Some talked excitedly about fighting a real high dragon, others wondered at the fates of those in the Highever teyrnir, city, and castle, and others wondered what they should do in terms of facing the dragon or the templars. Alistair understood that it sucked to fight high dragons, hoped that the people of Highever were mostly okay—though, he had no hope for the livestock—and also couldn’t decide which issue to attend to first. Originally, the plan had been for him and Anora to deal with the templars at the border, presenting a strong, united front backed by a good number of soldiers. Instead, he had to decide which threat was more dire, the high dragon or the possibly invading templars. The Divine had yet to say anything official on the matter, but legions of templars massing on the Orlesian side of the Ferelden-Orlais border was unofficial message enough. Coupled with the stepped up number of templar hunting parties reported by people throughout the country, he knew they still wanted Morrigan.

Well, he had no intention of handing her over. As much as he might argue with her, dislike what she’d done, and think that she could be an absolute bitch, it still held that she’d helped during the Blight when she did not have to. She’d put herself in dangerous situations and risked her life when it was of no direct benefit to her, especially after they had picked up Wynne to help with the magical side of things. There was also the not-so-small matter that his younger brother had once loved her. While it was apparent that Malcolm had mostly moved on, he knew that his brother would always feel something for her, and wouldn’t want her hurt. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be out searching for her.

He held in a sigh. Morrigan also had a point, however irritatingly she’d put it. The child was a child, and didn’t even have a Call like the trapped Old Gods or an archdemon. He and the other Wardens hadn’t heard a thing, and it was fairly stupid to insist that what she’d done was horrible and awful and possibly world-ending when it clearly wasn’t. Still, it was hard to let go of the resentment, and she did absolutely _nothing_ to engender a favorable response. It was almost like she preferred that they snarl and yell at each other rather than continue with adult, civilized discourse. 

All right, so he preferred it that way, too. Whatever. It felt way too odd when they were polite. Unnatural, even. Best to keep their relationship, such as it was, strained.

Then again, being nice to her might get him a chance to _see_ her child, and he was admittedly quite curious. What did the human vessel of an Old God’s soul look like? _“Human, you fool,”_ he heard Morrigan’s voice tell him. Right. She wasn’t even physically around him and she was being condescending. So that plan was out. Considering that Zevran was an elf, he suspected the child would look nothing like his father and everything like his mother. Well, there were worse things. While Morrigan might be infuriating, she was quite easy on the eyes, as Zevran had liked to point out to Alistair whenever he complained about her less endearing qualities—of which, he still insisted, there were many. Knowing that Morrigan was staying with the Dalish had Alistair looking toward the Dalish section of the roadside camp, seeking out the sails of their aravels. He would need their help, anyway, if they had warriors to spare. Their archers were of great assistance while fighting a giant creature that could also fly. It might’ve just been an excuse to try and catch a glimpse of this mysterious Old God child, but at least it was a good one.

After making an inquiry, he was informed that his wife the Queen had indeed arrived and had been visiting with the Dalish when the messengers from Highever appeared. “Also,” the man said, “Warden Nathaniel and Warden Mhairi are meeting with her Majesty and that Dalish Keeper, as well.” Alistair had to stop himself from grinning at having even more of an excuse to drop in on the Dalish. Wynne accompanied him to the Dalish end of the camp, with two of the Royal Guard trailing them. He’d already been told that these Dalish were not the Mahariel, but the Ra’asiel, an entirely different clan that lately had been up in Nevarra and the Free Marches. Still, once he was close enough to be able to make out faces, he sought out familiar ones amongst the elves. But the only faces he recognized were near the main campfire, and they were those of his wife and of Morrigan. Both of them looked rather more than testy.

Well, it wasn’t like he couldn’t have seen _that_ one coming. Frankly, he was surprised that claws weren’t already out. Then he caught sight of Nathaniel and Mhairi standing nearer to a young woman who carried a mage’s stave on her back. Ah, that would be the keeper, he assumed. “Keeper looks a bit young, doesn’t she?” he quietly asked Wynne.

She lifted an eyebrow. “She looks about your age, and you lead a kingdom, Alistair, while she leads only a clan. Besides, elves age differently than humans, especially the Dalish.”

“All right, you have a point with the age thing, I’ll give you that one. Still, it’s a little unsettling.”

“I’m sure that foreign dignitaries think the same when they meet you.”

“You know, I think I was just insulted. But you hide it so well sometimes that it becomes hard to tell.”

She chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out one day.”

Morrigan was the first to see him. “Alistair.” She motioned toward Nathaniel. “This Warden tells me that the rampaging dragon is the one you spoke of earlier, one that both you and he have already engaged in combat?”

Alistair immediately went on the defensive. “If it’s only got half a tail, then I assume it would be. You don’t see many half-tailed dragons flying about.”

“Pardon me, your Majesty, but you don’t see many dragons flying about, period,” said Mhairi. 

“Well, maybe not _you_ , but I’ve seen plenty.” Then Alistair remembered that Morrigan had told him she planned on going to Drake’s Fall, and he looked at the witch again. “I take it this puts a crimp in your plans? Not that it doesn’t put a serious damper on everyone’s plans, but still, yours in particular.”

Morrigan’s mouth twitched like she itched to say something scathing. “I will admit, I had not planned for a high dragon.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Not even your mother?”

“Not so soon.”

He supposed that was fair. She’d probably have been way more panicked if she were truly expecting Flemeth. He remembered when they’d gone to fight Flemeth the first time in the Korcari Wilds—how nervous she’d been trying not to act, but they’d all noticed it anyway since they’d traveled together for so long. After Flemeth had died—well, when they’d assumed she was dead—Morrigan had become the most human Alistair had ever seen from her. This Morrigan was a strange mixture of the Morrigan he’d first met, and the Morrigan that had seemed almost happy in that period after they’d freed her from the specter of her mother’s chosen fate for her. “Do you have a plan for fighting Flemeth, if she does show?”

“No. Nothing that can be put into place for a great many years. That is why my son and I must escape Thedas.”

One thing he had always greatly appreciated about Morrigan, even though it led to ego-bruising far too often, is that she was always forthright. It was a trait that he sorely missed whenever he had to spend a lot of time with the nobility at court. Come to think of it, Líadan had that trait as well. Apparently it was something his younger brother highly appreciated in women. He hoped Morrigan didn’t ask about Líadan or Malcolm. That would get... awkward, especially since it wasn’t his place to tell her. “How is it that you plan on escaping, again? We never got around to that part earlier. I need to know your plan before I can decide on where I’m sending my troops.”

Morrigan cast a look around at the crowd of bystanders. Some of the higher-ranked human soldiers had pressed in from the camp beyond, earning glares from many of the Dalish warriors, but since they hadn’t been overly rude or violent, were allowed to pass. Other Dalish elves had also gathered near the fire, but Alistair supposed the rest of the clan already knew, or trusted in the wisdom of their keeper for what they’d do next. She sighed. “I will not tell you of my plans with so many witnesses about. It is intolerable.”

“The Dalish can guarantee your safety, your Majesty,” said the keeper, and then she gave a slight incline of her head. “ _Andaran atish’an._ I am Keeper Lanaya.”

“Well met, Keeper. Obviously, you already know who I am—everyone already knows before I do. And I’m sure you could keep me safe. I’ve seen your warriors in action.” He also realized that this clan had kept Morrigan and her child safe from the Tevinters, templars, and even Grey Wardens looking for them. That also gave weight to Lanaya’s claim. He glanced over at Anora, who gave him a quick, tight nod. Good, she agreed. In his couple months of marriage, he’d discovered that life was much more pleasant if he did things Anora agreed with. And, if he was determined to do something he knew she’d disagree with, that her ire was much less if he at least discussed it with her first. Sometimes, in those discussions, she came around to see his point of view, or he came around to see hers. Other times, they’d come up with an entirely different approach all together. Another thing he’d learned was that it was best if they put up a united front in public and discussed reservations in private. However, when side discussions couldn’t be had, eye contact and nods or shakes of the head did almost as well.

He turned to his guards and gave them orders to have the soldiers be ready to march by first light. Either way he decided, they would be leaving in the morning, either for the border or for the coast. His instincts told him the coast, for the high dragon was a more dire, direct threat than the templars on the border. Yet he still wanted to hear what the captain had to say, what his general would have to say in the morning if he reached them in time, and there was always Anora, Nathaniel, and Wynne, as well. Collective wisdom always seemed better when they had time for it, as long as a decision was eventually made. Wisdom was useless when it wasn’t put into action. On hearing the orders given to the guards, the soldiers followed them back into their section of the camp, looking decidedly disappointed that they wouldn’t hear whatever the mysterious Witch of the Wilds had to say. In the time since the end of the Fifth Blight, Morrigan’s role and disappearance had certainly led to a lot of rumors. One very strong one was that she had been carrying the Prince’s child. That particular rumor had been so strong that even Anora had ventured to ask Alistair about it one day over lunch. After choking on a roll, he’d managed to recover enough to tell her that very much no, no Morrigan was not carrying Malcolm’s child. But the rumors hadn’t stopped flying through the commoners and nobility alike. These soldiers had thought they’d get some juicy gossip, but instead they’d be left without.

Lanaya instructed her hunters to assume guard posts and patrols, and then motioned Alistair and the others who were to remain deeper into the camp. Anora fell into step at his side, her mostly-grown mabari trying to nudge her way in between them. “Oh no, you don’t,” Alistair said to the dog, placing an unwavering hand on her head and nudging her to walk on her mistress’s right side. “You’ve been with her this entire time, while I haven’t seen her for three weeks. I’m here now and you can just deal with it.” There were times when he thought Adalla had taken over for Loghain when it came to protecting Loghain’s daughter’s virtue. Or something like that, he imagined, because the mabari certainly didn’t seem enthusiastic about any attempts at begetting an heir, or any affection between them of any nature, really. Malcolm had commented that Líadan’s mabari Revas was the same way, and that perhaps it was a trait shared by the entire litter. 

Dog dealt with, Alistair turned his attention to his wife, whom he hadn’t really gotten a chance to greet. “Are you well?” She had looked to be in somewhat of a shock when he’d first approached. You had to know her fairly well to see it, but the signs were there. Slightly more pale than usual, her blue eyes a bit wider, her shoulders held a little stiffly, all signs pointing to her being on the shocked side. Of course, news of a rampaging high dragon or dealing with Morrigan could do that to a person, so he entirely understood. 

“As well as can be. I admit to being curious about this Morrigan.”

“I knew it! You’re just a gossipmonger at heart. Worse than fishwives in a sewing circle or however that works.”

“That is neither here nor there, and your metaphor was mixed.”

He caught the tiny movement at the corners of her eyes—she’d almost rolled them. Damn, so close. He’d get her one day. While getting to know Anora as a person, he’d discovered that he’d been wrong in his assumption that she had no sense of humor. In fact, Anora had a fine sense of humor hidden and thoroughly smothered by impossibly refined manners. She got the jokes and sometimes even found them funny, but she had such absolute control over her reactions  that it appeared like she hadn’t any sense of what amusement was. The first time he’d made her outright laugh, he’d been giddy and gleeful at finding his assumption proven incorrect. From then on, he’d set himself to somehow making her crack. And here, yet again, another close call. He grinned. “Yes, I’m doing well, too, wife. How kind of you to ask.”

She gave him a demure smile. “Good to know. Also, there are things you and I must discuss about King Bhelen once all of this is over. He strikes me as rather—”

“Shady?”

“That’s one way of putting it, yes. He seems to mean well about his people, yet his methods are rather... determined.”

“Hildur has quite a few things to say on the subject, your Majesty,” said Nathaniel. “Most of them are quite colorful. King Bhelen is actually her nephew. King Endrin was Hildur’s brother. Her assessment of Bhelen was much like yours.”

Anora arched a brow. “Oh? The Wardens certainly do seem to collect a lot of royalty. Which, given the state of things in the Anderfels, is understandable.”

“That reminds me,” said Alistair, “they have a delegation coming to visit in two months. Not the Wardens, but an ambassador and his company from the country of the Anderfels.”

“I remember,” said Anora. “However, best to concentrate on the high dragon and the templars at the moment, and not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Indeed,” said Morrigan. They had arrived at one of the farther reaches of the Dalish camp, and stopped at a much smaller campfire. Smooth logs, ones Alistair assumed the Dalish carried with them given how smooth they were and from various bits of carving in them, had already been placed around the fire, and Morrigan found a seat on one of them. Nathaniel and Mhairi waited until Alistair and Anora sat, and then Lanaya followed suit after staring into the surrounding forest for a time. Most likely, Alistair decided, confirming the presence of her hunters. Very wise idea. 

He clapped his hands together. “So what’s your plan? How are you going to get away from Flemeth?”

“It is called an eluvian.” Morrigan smoothed the leather of what Alistair figured mostly passed as a skirt—at least her top now covered far more than it used to, which had to be good for her since her top had become more expansive—and then folded her hands on her lap. “It’s a portal, at least that’s near as what we can gather from the literature and what the Dalish and I have studied.” Her attention went directly to the King. “Alistair, do you recall the mirror you smashed in the ruins in the Brecilian Forest?”

He blinked. “You mean the one that tainted Líadan? Yes. Why?”

“That was no Tevinter artifact. It was _elvhen_ , from the time of Arlathan. We have figured out how to activate it, we believe, and from historical records, have found where an intact one might be—Drake’s Fall. It’s my intention to go there and use it to leave Thedas.”

“But where does it go? Anywhere on Thedas or in the Fade, I’m fairly sure Flemeth can reach. She’s already proven that she can.” Honestly, most of the time, he felt like Flemeth merely toyed with them all, and that they were still alive not because they’d defeated her, but because they entertained her.

“It goes to no place on Thedas and not the Fade. It goes to a place the elves call _Setheneran_ , where we believe that Arlathan currently is.”

“Arlathan? You mean the ancient elven city that was destroyed by Tevinter?”

“Not destroyed,” said Lanaya, “but moved. It took—let’s just say it took a lot, but it was moved, the city and most of its people. It was cut off from Thedas and the Fade before the taint and the First Blight. It will be safe there for Morrigan and Cianán, from both Flemeth and the possibility of her son being tainted.”

Anora shot Alistair a questioning look, and he gave her a shake of the head that said he’d explain later. This was going to be a long night if Anora asked hard questions about Morrigan’s son. At least they had a name, now—Cianán. He wondered what it meant. Alistair also didn’t fail to catch the dirty look Morrigan gave Lanaya at the Dalish woman mentioning Cianán’s name. Ha, apparently Morrigan had wanted to keep that to herself as well. So secretive, that woman, and combined with her penchant for being forthright, it caused a lot of cognitive dissonance in Alistair when he thought about it for too long. “Do you know where in Drake’s Fall this is? It’s a bunch of mountains west of Highever, not just one particular place.”

“It was a more particular place when the Tevinters held the land,” said Morrigan. Then she looked over toward Lanaya, who handed her a book she’d fetched from an aravel. With a nod of thanks, Morrigan opened the book to what looked like a map, and then handed it to Alistair. “It’s a particular peak with an entrance that leads to a very large, natural cave inside. Long ago, it used to be the place where high dragons went to die. The Tevinters named it a place of power, believing that the old bones provided such. On that belief, they transported an eluvian there, thinking they could make it work through power gained from the dragon bones. However, the Tevinters could only use the eluvians for communication, connecting them to the Fade instead of the realm for which the mirrors were originally intended. That, incidentally, is what caused the eluvian Líadan and her friend found to become corrupted. Connected to the Fade, it’s connected to the taint, and eventually breaks from that connection.”

“Why couldn’t they work it properly?” After he asked, his eyes dropped to the book Morrigan had given him. Though drawn in a different hand, Drake’s Fall on this map was obviously in what was now the northern coast of Ferelden, and he could see that the entrance was in that same cirque they’d been in when they’d fought the dragon. Right. _Of course it was._ He really needed to have a little chat with Andraste and the Maker about some of these things.

“They were not elves,” said Lanaya. “Just as the varterral will attack anything not of elven blood, the portal will not work properly unless an elf—of their own free will—is the one calling on it. By trying to force them to work, the Tevinters were breaking every eluvian they found or stole.”

She sounded bitter, but Alistair couldn’t blame her. He nodded, and then returned his gaze to Morrigan as he returned the book. “Do you think it will work?”

“It must work.” She held his gaze for a moment, and then broke it, handing the book over to Lanaya.

Alistair wasn’t fooled; he’d known Morrigan for too long. He knew her vulnerability when he saw it. He’d heard the want for hope and belief in Morrigan’s tone for the plan, but recognized that Morrigan was not one who allowed herself to do such mortal things. Really, though, it was her only shot, so she believed it would work as much as she could, that much he recognized. “All right. If this gets you and your son away from Flemeth, then we’ll have to make it happen.”

She went absolutely still, an indication of her surprise. “You would help with this endeavor?”

He shrugged. “It’s far better than turning you over to the templars or, Maker forbid, having Flemeth catch up with you. No one’s come up with a better plan so far and you can’t stay on the run forever. We’ll have to get rid of the pesky dragon, of course, but we’ve done that sort of thing before. Keeping the templars busy might take some doing, though. They are notoriously single-minded. ” He idly wondered if Knight-Commander Thierry was in charge of the contingent at the border, or if the man had quit his command post for something more quiet far in the Orlesian country. After the bad business with the Harrowing at Highever, he certainly would’ve chosen a transfer. 

“When is your general supposed to arrive?” asked Anora.

“Teyrna Cauthrien? Tomorrow, last I heard. If we’re lucky, she’ll breeze in sometime tonight. If she’s at all a soldier, they’ll be marching through here in the daylight so no one gets injured in the darkness.”

“Tomorrow, then. Teyrna Cauthrien will always keep a good soldier’s mindset.”

He smiled. “Which is why she’s my general. That, and she’s rather good at the whole tactics and strategy thing. She learned well from a good commander.” He’d admitted it once to his wife in private that Loghain had been a very good general, as long as you ignored his performance at Ostagar. As for that disastrous battle, it was a topic neither of them dared speak about, and he suspected it would remain a non-topic for several years to come. Directly speaking of Loghain was only slightly less painful, but he tried to meet Anora somewhere in the middle, remembering that the man had been her father. It also helped him to remember how honorably Loghain had met his end, unlike the man who’d suffered his death sentence beside him, Howe. His temper started sparking, and Alistair realized he should think of other things, like puppies and kittens, because being short-tempered and having to deal with Morrigan was a recipe for a Very Bad End.

“If you wish to take the bulk of the forces we have here to deal with the high dragon, I believe Teyrna Cauthrien and I can handle the Orlesians at the borders.”

He couldn’t resist a chuckle. “You mean templars?”

Her bland expression told him she believed them exactly the same. Out loud, she said, “Orlesian templars, then, if it pleases you, your Majesty.”

Oh, that was frosty. He was going to pay for that one. “It does.” And that one, too. Damn, he was out of practice. 

“Good. Regardless, Cauthrien and I can keep the templars occupied while you and your men take care of the dragon. Though I am not a fan of you riding at the head of the company sent to kill the dragon, I do recognize that you happen to be uniquely qualified to help lead the endeavor. There is also the not-so-small matter of Morrigan and the Dalish. It would be best if they traveled under the protection of your royal company, considering the current state of the Highever teyrnir.”

“I agree.” He nodded, and then noticed the defensiveness building behind Lanaya’s eyes. “Not that I don’t believe your clan can’t handle themselves. In fact, I very much believe they can. However, there’s no need for you to come under unnecessary attack, and people will be a bit panicky and on edge with a dragon actively roaming about and attacking. Many people don’t know the entire story about what happened in the Wending Wood, and still unfairly assume the Dalish were the aggressors.” To be fair, in Velanna’s case, she _was_ the aggressor most of the time, but there was no need to disparage the dead. Then again, it was mostly the memory of Velanna’s attacks that the humans of the northern coast held. Unfairness went both ways, it seemed. “But if you’re traveling under the King’s banner, you’ll not be attacked out of fear. Brigands, possibly, but I doubt it. Your warriors’ arrows would also come in quite handy against the dragon if you wished to acquit yourselves in combat.”

Lanaya inclined her head. “ _Ma serannas_ , King Alistair. Thank you.”

Morrigan got to her feet and folded her arms across her chest. “And after the dragon has been slain? What then?”

“You will require a guide, my lady,” said Nathaniel, nearly making Alistair jump a foot in the air because that man had been so quiet that the King had entirely forgotten Nathaniel was even there. It was more than a little creepy, that ability to skulk about in the shadows. He also held Lanaya’s book in his hands, open to the map from earlier. That at least explained why he would say, with such certainty, that a primarily Dalish task needed guides other than the Dalish.

Alistair also found himself giving Nathaniel an odd look, entirely not understanding why he was courting a nasty, painful death in insisting on calling Morrigan ‘my lady.’ The rest of Nathaniel’s statement was true, though. “He’s right. You’ll need Wardens on the way up there in case anything has happened to the team at the Deep Roads entrance, because that location on your map?” He pointed at the book in Nathaniel’s hands. “Totally the one where we sealed the Deep Roads entrance _and_ where we first fought that high dragon, before Oghren made it a half-tailed dragon.”

“On another page, there’s a different map. One of the inside.” Nathaniel had what might have been a wry smile play briefly on his lips. “Apparently, the cavern they’re looking for is on the right side of the split near the entrance.”

Alistair narrowed his eyes. “Dalish artifacts would have been far more pleasant than what we actually did find. Or, really, what found us. I blame Oghren.”

“You’ll get no argument from me,” said Nathaniel, passing the book, still open to the other page, to Morrigan. “But you will still need Wardens down there with you, my lady, especially with the threat the darkspawn pose to your son.”

Morrigan gave the man a very curious look, and Alistair had to admit that, for the first time since he’d known her, he believed he knew exactly what Morrigan felt. Then she said, “I would be grateful for your help.”

Clearly, she had lost her mind. 

This was not the Morrigan Alistair knew. Then again, the Morrigan he’d known had also not been a mother. So it was either motherhood that had changed her, or she’d been possessed by a very kind demon. Considering how she’d acted with him earlier, his coin was on the motherhood thing.

“However, do not think that I have forgotten about your wayward arrow,” Morrigan said when Nathaniel nodded to her. “If you are to help me in the future, kindly keep your weapons and any of your projectiles away from me.”

A surge of relief went through Alistair. There was the Morrigan he knew and barely tolerated. Then he saw that Anora was giving him that particular look, where she was thusly informing him that she would like to have a discussion with him, in private, as soon as possible. Maker, she had questions. Of course she did. While she knew about Zevran, sort of, she didn’t exactly know about the whole thing to do with Morrigan’s child having the soul of an Old God. An Old God, by the way, that used to be inside an archdemon.

It was becoming screamingly apparent that he would not be getting any sleep that night.

He stood up. “If everything is settled for the meantime, then we should be ready to leave just after first light. It’s usually four days to Highever from here, and I’d like to see if we can cut that down to three.”

“ _Dareth shiral_ , your Majesty,” said Lanaya. “First light it is.”


	84. Chapter 84

**Chapter 84**

“But all that stands tall must eventually fall.”

—from _Tales of the Destruction of Thedas, The First Blight, Chapter 1: The Second Sin_

**Alistair**

It took another hour before Alistair was finished with meetings and plans and was finally left alone in his tent with Anora. The moment the flap fell shut, her arms had crossed and she’d turn to fix him with that one-eyebrow-raised look that tended to unsettle him. “There are things that I do not know due to my not being a Grey Warden,” she said, and then held up a hand to forestall his protest. “I can understand and abide by that, to an extent. The Wardens have their secrets and will always have them. But this does not seem to be an entirely Grey Warden matter, since Morrigan seems to know...” she trailed off and tilted her head in thought. “More than you.”

“Morrigan has always known more than me,” said Alistair, happy to have something to latch onto that was less dangerous than the other things. “Not only that, but she has enjoyed pointing that fact out to me since the first time we ever met.”

The eyebrow came down. “I am not joking.”

“Neither am I. She’s wicked, that woman.”

Anora pinched the bridge of her nose. “Alistair, please. I had to deal with King Bhelen early today, and we’ve just gotten news that there is a high dragon rampaging along our northern—and mostly untouched by the Blight—coast, where many of our refugees are still residing. So, I would very much appreciate it if you could be a bit less yourself, so to speak.”

He almost pointed out that _he’d_ had to deal with _Morrigan_ , but Anora was giving him a plaintive enough look that he let the idea go. “All right. However, this means I’ll be worse tomorrow. Just saying.”

“I will not be with you most of tomorrow, so feel free to unleash those peculiar Theirin charms on Morrigan, if you wish.”

He grinned. “That is a fantastic idea. You’re brilliant, you are.” Though he didn’t like the idea of leaving her yet again, this time it wasn’t even that she’d be on a diplomatic trip while he was gathering and inspecting troops. No, nothing as easy as that. Instead, it had to be distracting the templars—Orlesians—while he went off to fight a dragon. Part of him wished he could bring Cauthrien with him, because if anyone could fight a dragon, she was certainly a warrior capable of it, but she was truly needed here. She would also do a good job watching the Queen, so there was that. He just didn’t like the separation so soon after the first. They were making a go of it, of their marriage. While he couldn’t name it as love, not yet, there was something forming between them. They certainly both loved Ferelden and wanted the best for the country and its people, even if they butted heads over what goals to aim for and how to accomplish them. He sat down in one of the three chairs in the tent—sometimes, he could not deny that being king was _awesome_ —and sighed. “During the Blight, and probably even now, Morrigan knew more about the Grey Wardens than I did or Malcolm did, most likely even Riordan.” He thought back to how Riordan had told them about killing the archdemon, ignored the horrible timing and the rising question of why the man hadn’t thought it mention it sooner, and to how he’d presented the news. “Do you know why Grey Wardens are needed to end Blights?”

Anora sat down in one of the other chairs, crossing one leg over the other, and holding her upper knee with her hands. “I had thought Wardens were particularly suited to the task of fighting the darkspawn, given their abilities to sense the darkspawn. I had not thought they were absolutely necessary to end Blights.”

“They are.” He sighed again, hating that he was required to keep these secrets from her and hating that he was going to tell her. “Our abilities come from... we...” He struggled for the words. “It’s the Joining that gives us our abilities, the ones related to sensing the darkspawn.”

“I had assumed so. I’ve heard that it’s often fatal.”

He let out a rueful chuckle. “Our secrets are not always as secret as we seem to think. Yes. I suppose it does get awkward when Joinings go badly and there are bodies to be dealt with. The reason why they’re often fatal are because they involve ingesting darkspawn blood.”

Her hand went to her chest, and then her eyes shifted to his chest, right where his Warden amulet was beneath his tunic. “Your pendant—”

“Darkspawn blood. Well, that and some other things, since there’s a whole potion involved that’s very complicated to make. At any rate, that’s what connects us to the darkspawn. We’re tainted, but just not as badly as they are, or as badly as a ghoul. That comes later.”

Her hand came down, but her eyebrows show up. “Later?”

“The taint is always fatal. It just takes longer with others, at least the ones who have gone through the Joining. You get about thirty years, give or take, and then things start to go... south. When that happens, we go into the Deep Roads, armed and armored, and fight the darkspawn until we die.” He closed his eyes from the softly-lit tent, recalling the image of the last Warden he’d witnessed take his Calling. 

“Riordan.”

Alistair nodded, and then opened his eyes. “Yes. It’s called the Calling, and Riordan had put his off for long enough when he went.”

Anora’s eyes were distant and saddened. “This applies to you as well, I assume? And Malcolm? Líadan?”

“Yes. We’ve some time yet, so don’t count us out. With luck, each of us will get our Calling at the same time, and we’ll be able to go in together.” He definitely did not want Líadan having to go alone, not after having seen broodmothers. While he didn’t think Wardens that far gone could be turned into broodmothers—it was a specialized process—he didn’t want to take that chance, and doubted she did, either. “By then, it will be like reliving our youth.” He smiled, attempting to lighten the mood, anything to stop feeling even a hint of what he felt while in the Deep Roads. 

Anora blinked quite a few times, and Alistair recognized it for what it was—grief. He wasn’t sure if it was for him. For all he knew, it could be for Líadan, since she and the Queen had become good friends during the winter. One large reason for that had been they’d trained their mabari pups together, and forging the bond with their pups had also helped to forge a bond of friendship between two women from very, _very_ different walks of life. However, they would not know each other into old age. Finally, Anora took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and turned her gaze to the King. “Tell me why this sacrifice is necessary. There must be a reason to slowly poison and kill our finest warriors.”

“It goes something like this—the darkspawn don’t have souls. That’s part of what makes them so mindless and how they’re so disorganized and almost never on a surface if it isn’t a Blight. But, when there’s a Blight, they’ve an archdemon leading them, and archdemons have the souls of Old Gods. They’re corrupted by the taint, but they’re there. They’re the ones who provide the darkspawn with intelligence enough to form a horde and attack with strategy and tactics.”

“So that is why the horde flees after the archdemon is killed?”

“Yes.” Loghain had raised no fool of a daughter, and Alistair was not surprised at her quick grasp of things military. “The problem with killing the archdemon is that when you kill it in body, its soul will leap, using the taint as a guide, to the closest tainted body, which is almost always another darkspawn. That’s why the first Blight last so long—they kept thinking they’d killed the archdemon, and ended up wrong.”

“And the Wardens are tainted. So if one of the Wardens killed the archdemon, its soul would go there, instead of into another darkspawn.” Her hands wrung together in her lap. “That... cannot be good for the Warden in question.”

He shook his head. “No. No, it isn’t. It annihilates both their souls. The archdemons dies completely, but so does the Grey Warden. Usually it’s the oldest Warden, either by age or years in service, who takes the final blow if it can be arranged. Last year, it was supposed to be Riordan.”

“Then why Zevran? Did something happen to Riordan so that he couldn’t give that blow?”

“No. Riordan struck the last blow on the archdemon, as we’d planned. Zevran had died before that, bringing the archdemon out of the sky using something that was very acrobatic and flashy and Antivan and _stupid_.” Old resentment returned at how his friend and brother Warden had thrown away his life. There had been other ways they could’ve brought down the archdemon, if only Zevran had waited and not acted so impulsively. Then again, it wasn’t even impulse, not after his near-leap in the Deep Roads when they’d first caught sight of the archdemon, or his pointed questions when they were tracking the archdemon to the top of Fort Drakon. The leap was planned, and the plummet guaranteed after the actions he’d taken with Morrigan. “Riordan fell, but awakened soon after. I’m still not sure who was more surprised: him or the other Wardens. We found out soon after what had happened—Morrigan had done a ritual with him.”

“What kind of ritual?”

“Probably one as deep and dark and creepy as you can imagine. I’m not sure of the details, and I don’t think I ever want to be. The essence of it was that she had a way to direct the soul of the Old God to a newly-conceived child of a newer Gray Warden, preferable a Warden who hadn’t been in the order for more than a year or two.”

Anora sat up straight in her chair. “Malcolm? She had—”

He shook his head. “No. Malcolm told her no because he wasn’t sure what the child of an Old God would be like. You see, the Old Gods who are still trapped in the earth, they Call to the darkspawn, and the darkspawn are compelled to dig for them. They’re compelled by their beautiful song to find their beauty and perfection, and then, as soon as they find them, their very touch taints them, just as the Magisters’ touch on the Golden City corrupted it. Malcolm wasn’t sure if a human child with the soul of an Old God would still Call to the darkspawn, and he decided it would be better to err on the side of precedent, and declined Morrigan’s offer.”

A tiny smirk pulled at Anora’s mouth. “I can’t imagine Morrigan liking that.”

“Oh no. She hated it. That’s when she left him for good. But some time after that, she went and presented the same deal to Zevran, and he accepted. Knowing Zevran, he did what he thought was right—he did what he could to save his friends and the closest thing he had to family. Yet he also sacrificed himself when he brought the archdemon out of the air, so I’m not sure if he was entirely comfortable with what he’d done in going through with the ritual. As it is, we’ll never know for certain. What we do know is that it worked—Riordan didn’t die, and yet, the Blight did end.”

“Is Morrigan’s child safe? I mean, do the darkspawn hear him?”

“Not that I can tell, or any of the other Wardens. This close, if he were Calling, we’d be able to hear it—we could with the archdemon. We could hear it through the taint. With Cianán this close and the Wardens hearing nothing, I’m inclined to believe that, for the most part, he’s a normal elf-blooded human child. Of course, I have to assume that. I suppose he could look like some sort of monster. I wouldn’t know, not having seen him myself.”

“I did, earlier, in the Dalish camp. He looks much like his mother. A beautiful child, really. Looks very human, and nothing at all like Zevran. Perhaps that will come later.”

“Not likely. Human and elf pairings, the human influence is going to win out over the elven. The children are always human, though I suppose if one of the humans is already elf-blooded, a child might have more elf-like traits. Never the pointed ears, though.” He shrugged.

“That’s too bad. I guess they’ll look like Theirins, then, when Malcolm and Líadan have—”

“They won’t.” Alistair ran a weary hand through his hair, and then leaned forward in his chair. “It’s difficult for a Grey Warden to have children when only one of the parents is a Warden. For two Wardens, while not impossible, it rarely occurs. For it to happen, there has to be the use of magic or something going on with the Fade or something like that for a child to be made. So, if you were hoping for the two of them to have a bunch of cute babies, you’ll have to hope for something else.” Admittedly, the idea of his younger brother suffering at the whims of a tiny daughter who acted like Líadan amused him to no end. But it was something that would never be, and pained him too much to think about. His own chances with having children with Anora weren’t the greatest, and that was even with banking on the fact that the reason she and Cailan hadn’t conceived had been a fault of Cailan’s, and not hers. Time would tell. If a decade passed and there was no issue between them—he didn’t even dare hope that Malcolm and Líadan might have a child—they would start making long-term plans for appointing an heir for the kingdom that wasn’t a Theirin. Hopefully, they would be able to have it approved by the Landsmeet and keep any wars of succession from happening. Even more hopefully, either he or his brother would father a child that would be an acceptable heir. Maker forbid if either of them managed to sire a child, and that child turn out to be a mage. As much as he wanted to avoid even thinking about it, it was a legitimate concern, given that their mother was a mage. He and his brother were the last of their line, but they brought magic into it, as well. 

“That’s unfortunate. They would have—” She sighed. “You’re, right. Best not think about it.” After a moment, she asked, “Do the templars know about this? About what Morrigan has done?”

“Not exactly, no. They believe she’s a maleficar, obviously. But—”

“Is she a blood mage?”

He laughed. “No. Morrigan may be many things, but she is no blood mage. She believes it to be a crutch for a mage who simply craves more power, but must rely on others to provide that power, or something like that. She can carry on ranting about blood magic for ages. Not because she thinks it’s evil, mind you, but because she thinks it’s a sign of weakness. She doesn’t do well with weakness, real or perceived. That makes her especially bad at realizing that she’s just as human as the rest of us.”

Anora nodded slowly. “Yes, I got that from our talk earlier today. She doesn’t seem to be a woman who likes to realize that she’s mortal and susceptible to mortal failings.”

Her gaze seemed almost knowing to Alistair, as if she had some knowledge of Morrigan that Alistair wasn’t privy to and had decided not to tell him. He raised an eyebrow. “Is there something you’re not telling me about your chat with Morrigan?”

She stood, smoothing out the lines of her dress. “Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. For now, it is between myself and Morrigan. It is a promise I made, and a promise I will keep as long as I am able. If something happens to change that fact, you will be the first to know.” She paused for a moment. “You might even discover it yourself as you travel before I’m even given the opportunity to tell you. Or you might even badger it out of her. I certainly wouldn’t be one to doubt your ability at pestering information out of anyone.”

He laughed despite himself. “True. It got me many illicit bites of cheese from the kitchen when I was at the chantry. All right. If you won’t tell me, wife, then I shall obtain my information by other means.” Means which, he knew, worked well on Morrigan, given enough time to employ them. However, there was the small matter of Warden Nathaniel acting strangely around her. Alistair rubbed at his chin and looked over at Anora again. “So, I have to ask— have you noticed Nathaniel behaving strangely?”

Anora frowned slightly at the question. “How do you mean?”

He couldn’t think of exactly how to explain it. How Nathaniel spoke to Morrigan reminded Alistair strongly of—that was it, right there. He remembered now. Their trip up to Drake’s Fall, back in the autumn, when Velanna had been alive and had accompanied them, and how Nathaniel had called her ‘my lady’ and that had irritated her to no end. Back then, he’d thought that Nathaniel had a thing for her. A very frightening thing, that, given Velanna’s propensity towards killing humans rather than treating them nicely—which, now that he thought about it, seemed too much like Morrigan to be comfortable—and had thought it vaguely interesting. Now, looking on Nathaniel’s treatment of Morrigan over the course of the evening, he’d moved from vaguely interested in the outcome to almost alarmed. Morrigan was _dangerous_. Didn’t Nathaniel _know_ that? Didn’t everyone? He looked at Anora. “I don’t know. Just a feeling.” Okay, so the excuse was weak, but it’s what he had.

“A feeling?”

Apparently, she wasn’t buying it, either. Damn. “I’ll let you know once I can explain it properly to myself.” Probably after Nathaniel was dead, ripped to shreds by Morrigan, but there was nothing for it. Human emotions, especially anything that came anywhere near close to love, made people stupid. Incredibly stupid. He’d experienced it—though he knew Morrigan would vehemently argue that he’d not had far to travel to reach ‘stupid’—and so had his brother, and countless other people he knew.

Perhaps that explained why Morrigan never allowed herself to feel such things. She did not want to be stupid, or sometimes, he suspected, even human. Then again, if Flemeth was really Morrigan’s natural mother, that meant that she wasn’t entirely human either, even though she looked and _acted,_ most of the time, entirely human.

Maker, this made his head hurt. 

The next morning, he was up and ready before the sun rose over the nearby peaks of the Frostbacks. To his surprise, Anora rose when he did, even though she was not, as he had been delighted to discover, a morning person. While he briefly conferenced with the Royal Guards who would accompany him north, Anora strode over toward the Dalish camp. All Alistair could think about, once she’d gone, was that she was going to go talk to Morrigan about whatever it was that they knew that he didn’t. And it bothered him immensely that he _did not know_. Coupled with the fact that Morrigan was acting even more evasive than usual—as if that should even be _possible—_ he knew the secret was about Morrigan, and wasn’t just some bit of information that Morrigan also happened to know. 

The lack of knowledge was going to drive him mad.

All things considered when dealing with logistics, they weren’t far behind schedule when he, the soldiers, and the Dalish finally took to the road, entirely leaving behind Gherlen’s Pass. He hoped that Anora would be successful and that she wouldn’t be harmed. She was kind of growing on him, and at this point, he’d miss her company.

Maker’s breath, he never thought he’d think something like that about Loghain Mac Tir’s daughter. Most likely, he’d already gone mad, and no one had bothered to tell him. Soon enough, he’d have that attendant with him to constantly wipe drool from his chin, like that ancestor of his that Morrigan had mentioned during the Blight.

Yes, time to speak with Morrigan. While that wouldn’t cheer him up, it would at least keep him occupied. He had three days to stay on Morrigan’s case. She’d either give in and tell him whatever secret she and Anora were keeping, or she’d snap. Either way, entirely worth it. Alistair motioned for his guards to stay with the soldiers, and rode back to where the aravels creaked along behind the marching column. Lanaya nodded and spoke a few words of greeting when he rode past, and then waved him to a different aravel when he asked about Morrigan. 

Two Dalish women rode on top of it, one looking particularly surly, and the other nodding to him in greeting as he approached. “ _Aneth ara,_ ” she said, adjusting a sling that secured an infant to her front. “My name is Panowen. You’re the human king, aren’t you? What can I do for you?”

He glanced up to where Lanaya rode on one of the other aravels, and then back at this Panowen person. “Um, I was looking for Morrigan. Your keeper told me she was riding on this aravel.” He pointed at the small painting of a raven and a crescent moon on the side of the aravel. “The one with the raven is what she said.”

“Morrigan is inside,” said Panowen.

At that, the other woman riding alongside her, one who carried, Alistair noticed, a rather capable and nasty-looking bow, shot Panowen a dirty look. “Morrigan said she didn’t want to be disturbed.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Morrigan always says she doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

The glare moved from Panowen to Alistair. “She means it.”

“She always means it. If we always did what she said, no one would ever talk to her.”

A trapdoor at the top of the aravel snapped open and Morrigan crawled partway out to glare at Alistair. “And I would be all the happier for it.” Then she brushed hair out of her eyes and sighed. “What do you want, Alistair?”

“To talk.”

“Was it something specific? Or did you merely want to bore me with more of your mindless jabbering? I have not the time for it. I did not during the Blight, and I certainly do not now.” She turned to Panowen. “He is hungry. I will ride up here if you go below, and Karam can take the reins.”

Panowen nodded, and then switched out with Karam, who spared another glare for Alistair before settling her attention on the halla pulling the aravel. Alistair, doing his best to ignore the glare, instead marveled at the woman’s choice in hairstyle. He understood that he wasn’t the best of judges when it came to hair and arranging it, but... _Maker_. Perhaps it had been a dare of some sort, or maybe she’d lost a bet. Those were the only reasons he could think of, unless it was some religious thing he didn’t know about, that anyone would keep a hairstyle like that. 

Morrigan climbed the rest of the way out of the aravel and Panowen hopped down, shutting the trapdoor behind her. “You are still here,” Morrigan said to the King.

“I am. I don’t give up easily. You should know that by now.”

“I don’t even know what it is that you want. Nor do I particularly care.”

Part of him wanted to point out that of course she did, or she wouldn’t have bothered engaging him in conversation. The other part of him realized that if he did, even if it was momentarily gleeful, it would quickly shut down any chance of getting information from Morrigan that day. It was never a good idea to remind Morrigan of her humanity. “Of course you don’t.” He managed not to sound smug. Mostly, anyway. Another thing bothered him, though. Something about what Morrigan had said to Panowen. He figured she was talking about her Old God child, but after all the urgency yesterday about having to get back to feed her child, he couldn’t understand why she’d send Panowen down there if he was hungry. Maybe Panowen had another child of her own down there? The infant in the sling had had pointed ears, so he knew that one hadn’t been Morrigan’s child. And when he’d asked Wynne yesterday if Morrigan had simply been using the need to feed her child as an excuse to be released, she’d scolded him for being insensitive and entirely unobservant. That had led to him pointing out that yes, he _had_ noticed that Morrigan was much more top-heavy than she’d been during the Blight, almost to the point of being distracting, and thank the Maker she now wore clothing that covered far more than she used to. And that had led to Wynne giving him _that look_ and him feeling like a chastised, embarrassed schoolboy. 

Alistair spent the next couple of hours peppering Morrigan with questions, and she fended each of them off, giving nothing away. Panowen appeared again, and Morrigan went back into the aravel after giving Alistair several chilly words of dismissal. 

Which meant that later that evening, when the soldiers and the Dalish made camp, he went and visited Morrigan as soon as he finished eating. The next day, he did the same thing, and by midafternoon, he was fairly certain that, if he kept it up, she was going to kill him.

So he kept it up.

On the third evening, since they were just past West Hill and entering the territory where the high dragon could be, he felt the pressure to finally get her to crack before they had to concentrate on killing beasts formerly known to exist only in myth. He found her in the Dalish camp, near the main cookfire, holding a dark-haired babe he assumed to be the mysterious Cianán. For a child supposedly possessing of a soul that once belonged to an Old God, he looked very... human. Very human and very much not monster-like, as he’d assumed the child would be. Kind of adorable, actually, in that baby sort of way. 

For once, he couldn’t see that constantly-glaring Karam anywhere near Morrigan, nor did he see the calmer and much nicer Panowen, either. Lanaya was there, but she merely nodded at him once before continuing on deeper into the Dalish camp. The other elves paid him no mind other than cursory glances, apparently having grown used to his presence. Morrigan, in addition to the child she was holding, aided by a sling, held a book and looked to be studying it. It surprised him that she was able to do so while holding an infant, but he didn’t know much about how children developed. From what Wynne had explained, infants were generally warm lumps of flesh for their first two months and didn’t really start becoming active and reaching for things until they hit three months. He figured that Cianán was nearing that, but wasn’t exactly sure. Either way, he wasn’t reaching for anything, appearing to be dozing instead.

Alistair stepped over and plopped himself down next to Morrigan, figuring she wouldn’t use magic while holding her child unless she was in mortal peril from darkspawn or a high dragon. “You know,” he said, gaining her attention because she’d attempted to pretend she hadn’t noticed him. “It’s kind of strange.”

She snapped the book shut and set it aside. “What is kind of strange?”

“Well, Malcolm went searching all over Thedas for you. Meanwhile, you quite literally fell at my feet.”

“I was shot by an arrow. I did not fall at your feet of my own accord.”

He mostly smothered the chuckle that rumbled up from his chest. “Fair enough.” He stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles, as if warming his feet by the fire. It was done in a way to show Morrigan that he was making himself comfortable, and she took immediate exception to it, as he knew she would.

“Why are you here?”

“For your lovely company.”

“At least you admit part of the truth.”

Yes, he did see her preen just a bit, there. Morrigan, Alistair knew, had a not-very-cleverly-hidden streak of vanity.  “I never denied that you weren’t lovely to look at, Morrigan. Just, not so lovely to listen to, usually.”

“I would say the same of you. Indeed, I have.” She adjusted a small blanket within the sling, tucking it around the infant it held. 

Alistair nodded his head toward the babe. “He looks like you.”

“Given that his father was the elf, I was not surprised, nor should you be. Are you going to prattle on for hours with this small talk?”

He sighed. “Morrigan, I—”

Karam strode purposefully toward the cookfire—Karam _always_ strode purposefully, Alistair had noticed—carrying a bundle that looked an awful lot like the one Morrigan currently had. Except, unlike Morrigan’s, the infant Karam carried was crying. Loudly. Very, very loudly. And Karam, instead of looking like her normal, surly self, suddenly seemed panicked, rushing to Morrigan as soon as she saw her, and looking like she wanted to thrust the bundle into Morrigan’s arms, as if Morrigan could do something useful. “Panowen is with Elin and the keeper because of Elin’s fever. It’s gone down some, but not enough to let her move from Elin’s side, and Cáel just won’t, he just keeps _crying_ and Creators know why, and they couldn’t concentrate with him there and—

Alistair quickly found his arms full of an infant as Morrigan removed the sling holding Cianán and practically shoved the babe into his arms. Then, after a check to be sure Alistair wouldn’t drop him, was reaching for Karam and saying, “Give him to me. Has he been checked? He could also be falling ill. He could have whatever Elin has.”

Karam, with a look of genuine relief, relinquished the child. “The keeper says it can’t be, because whatever Elin has is a sickness known only to elves, and Cáel isn’t elven.”

“Did she happen to forget that he is elf-blooded?” Concern wrote itself in lines on Morrigan’s brow, and her tone was snappish. Blue light flared at her fingertips, healing magic, as she passed her free hand over the infant’s face. 

Alistair balanced the child in his arms, not quite comprehending that even though Morrigan pretty much barely tolerated him, she’d just trusted him with her infant over what was another woman’s child. Except, not quite that, not anymore. Not if the child was elf-blooded and not elven. Were an infant not ill and another suspected ill, Alistair would’ve been amused that Morrigan had apparently gotten more than she’d bargained for, and that Zevran had given her something additional to the one child he’d signed on for. Then Alistair watched the light fall onto the child’s face—Maker’s _breath_ , the kid had a set of lungs, and even the babe he was holding had started to squirm in protest—and nearly stopped breathing.

The child Morrigan was holding was definitely not Zevran’s child. No, if Alistair wasn’t mistaken, the babe in her arms was very much a Theirin. There were enough paintings in the Palace in Denerim that he’d seen to know what a Theirin babe looked like.

“He is developing a fever,” said Morrigan, oblivious to Alistair’s revelation and instead entirely focused on her son’s health. “I do not know if Lanaya’s remedies will help him, and my own healing abilities are of little use in comparison.”

The stark worry in Morrigan’s voice jolted Alistair out of his thoughts, and while balancing Cianán, he removed his signet ring from his finger. “Karam.” He waited until the young woman looked directly at him, and then extended the ring. “Take this signet ring and go to the main part of the camp. The ring will let you pass, but in case anyone gets any strange ideas, bring another hunter with you. Go to my tent and have the Royal Guard fetch Wynne and bring her here. She will help.” He barely waited for Karam to snatch up the ring and hurry away before he turned to Morrigan. “I’m serious. Wynne will help.”

Morrigan didn’t seem very convinced. She nodded to him, and then started pacing, making shushing and comforting and very _motherly_ noises that Alistair would never have thought to associate with Morrigan. The infant—Cáel, he remembered—cried on, despite her efforts. Alistair desperately wanted to do something, especially as it started to really sink in that the child Morrigan was trying to console was his nephew, but he felt entirely helpless. Much like Morrigan must also feel because the boy just couldn’t be comforted. Alistair glanced down at the warm bundle in his arms and noted that he’d stirred a couple times, but the Old God child hadn’t fully awakened. Probably for the best that he slumber on instead of waking to cry in sympathy for his brother, mostly because if he did wake up and start crying, Alistair would probably start crying himself. 

Eventually, Karam and another hunter Alistair didn’t know by name came rushing into the Dalish camp, Wynne right behind them. She looked at Alistair and frowned. “What’s going on? Is this the sick child?”

“No, this one seems fine. Morrigan’s got the sick one.”

By then, Morrigan’s pacing had brought her back within the light of the fire, and Wynne walked over. They spoke in low tones, and then started for an aravel. Morrigan broke off long enough to snap at Alistair to follow them, because Cianán needed to be checked, as well. He handed the child to an expectant Karam, and then followed the women. However, he couldn’t really fit that well into the aravel, and he was made to wait outside as the women conferenced and healed or whatever it was they were doing in there. 

It was a long wait.


	85. Chapter 85

**Chapter 85**

“A great ashkaari, during his travels, came upon a village in the desert. There, he found houses crumbling. The earth was so dry and dead that the people tied themselves to each other for fear a strong wind would carry the ground from under their feet. Nothing grew there except the bitter memory of gardens. The ashkaari stopped the first man he saw, and asked, ‘What happened here?’

‘Drought came. And the world changed from prosperity to ruin,’ the man told him.

‘Change it back,’ the ashkaari replied.

The villager became angry then, believing the ashkaari mocked him, for no one could simply change the world on a whim. 

To which the ashkaari replied, ‘Then change yourself. You make your own world.’”

—an excerpt from _The Qun_

**Morrigan**

Morrigan found Alistair leaning against the aravel, staring out at the darkened forest around them. Her worry had been tamped down to concern, but it still threatened to consume her entire being. Cianán was fine and in perfect health, as apparently benefited the recipient of an Old God’s soul. Cáel had been caught at the onset of symptoms, and Wynne said he would be fine when he awakened in the morning. Then she had gone on with Karam to find Lanaya and Panowen so that she could help treat Elin. While Morrigan knew that Flemeth had not been a mother who believed in weakening things such as love, she realized that Flemeth had been an incredibly skilled healer instead of a mage whose skills were rudimentary, at best. Flemeth could heal her own child from an illness, while Morrigan could not.

It bothered her a great deal more than it should have, which only served to irritate her further. Added to that fact was that Alistair now knew about Cáel, and though she mocked him almost constantly for being dull-witted, he was not, in reality, a dullard. He had obviously put the clues together, and probably even faster than Anora, given what he knew. This new happenstance also served to irritate her, because she did not want to have to discuss this with Alistair, ever. Yet she had to discuss it, for he would not go away otherwise, unless she killed him. 

Killing Alistair, or even harming him, she’d realized a long time ago, would make Malcolm decidedly unhappy. Truly, it was only because of Malcolm’s fondness for his brother that she stayed her hand oftentimes, especially for the past few days. She sighed and leaned against the aravel next to Alistair. “We shall talk, you and I.”

He chuckled. “You’re one of the few people who dares dictate to the King, I’ve noticed. Really, it’s refreshing. Don’t ever change.”

“I do not plan to.”

He crossed his arms, and if Morrigan wasn’t mistaken, took on a smug demeanor. “But you already have, no matter how much you deny it. You love your sons, that much is almost painfully obvious.” The smugness faded, and Alistair’s voice became warm with concern. “Speaking of, is he going to—”

“He will be fine. That is what Wynne tells me.” She wanted to deny his allegations, but there would be little point. Too much evidence gave favor to what he’d said, and he was probably just trying to get a reaction from her, as he usually was. While she would rather continue ignoring the issue of Cáel’s paternity, she could not take the chance that Alistair might believe he had a right to the child because he had royal blood. “You will not take him, Alistair.”

“Is this your way of telling me that Cáel is my brother’s son? Because if it is, you’re really sucking at it. Thought you should know.”

“If this is your method of engendering trust, you need take additional lessons in learning how to do so.” And if he was not going to address her issue, then she would take steps to ensure that he would not take her son. She would be giving him away, yes, but to someone of her choosing, and that someone happened to be the boy’s father, and not his father’s brother, king or no. She pushed herself away from the aravel and made for the door.

Alistair sighed.

She stopped and leaned against the frame of the door, unable to bring herself to relax, but feeling compelled to at least listen to what he had to say. While not the greatest with words, Alistair did speak from the heart—the man could not convincingly tell a lie if his life depended on it. Malcolm, she remembered, hadn’t been much better.

“Morrigan, I have no plans for taking him. I wasn’t born into the nobility. I don’t think like they do. He’s your son, and even if he’s my nephew by blood, I, personally, have no right to take him from you, nor would I want to take an _infant_ from a perfectly good mother.”

“Anora informed me that Fereldan law says otherwise when it comes to kingdoms without heirs.”

He chuckled again. “So that was what Anora was keeping from me. It was driving me mad that she knew something I didn’t.”

“People knowing things that you do not should not come as a surprise to you this far into your life. One would think you would have grown used to it.”

“This whole ‘Alistair is an idiot’ thing is getting kind of old. I know that you know that I’m not stupid. If I were, I would’ve lost my kingdom by now. However, I’ve managed to hold on to it, to make it prosper despite the challenges it recently faced, and I’d like to think I’m doing a decent job at being king.”

Morrigan had to admit that Alistair had done a better job in the kingship than she’d thought possible. Credit where credit was due, she supposed, but she wouldn’t be telling him that out loud. “I will agree that the kingdom, while under your care, has not yet been annexed by Orlais or any other equally as greedy country.”

He stretched his arms briefly over his head. “I think I’m going to bask in what amounts to a compliment from the mighty Morrigan.” He grinned at her and she barely kept herself from rolling her eyes. “So Cáel is really my nephew?” Alistair’s tone had become hopeful and more than a little excited at the prospect of being an uncle. 

It was something she’d forgotten about him, that family tended to be even more important to Alistair than even to Malcolm because it was something he’d grown up without—and that made him treasure it. It was something Morrigan could barely even fathom herself. While she’d grown up in the Wilds with only Flemeth, Flemeth had provided for her and been, in her own way, family to her. Alistair hadn’t even experienced that. He’d had nothing, adopted, proper fosterage, or even blood relations who showed that they cared. Love did not even need to enter the equation, though she knew he assumed it came part and parcel with the experience of being related to another by blood. Morrigan did not think such things existed between herself and Flemeth—not with Flemeth wanting her death, it seemed, or in the ways she’d raised her—but Morrigan could not deny that it was what she immediately felt for both of her own sons, even though only one had been created from love, and the other from necessity. And it hadn’t been until Alistair had started taking on the role of elder brother that he’d really matured into a man capable of being the king that he was now. Family, at least in some contexts, she could believe was not a weakness, and she would not deny her son a possible strength. “Yes, he is.”

He nodded, losing none of the hope, but his brow furrowed. “How?”

She stared at him. “What do you mean ‘how?’ You are married and expected to produce an heir. Do you truly still not know where babies come from?”

“Andraste’s flaming sword, I know where babies come from! However, what I’ve not been told is how you can have a set of twins with each child having a different father. For all that Cianán looks like you, he could be Malcolm’s, too. And I also know that children don’t always entirely resemble their parents. While that’s never held true for the Theirin line, it happens with plenty of others. Maybe not you, though. You do have your mother’s nose.”

Morrigan resisted the urge to cover her face. He had annoyed her with digs like that since they started traveling together during the Blight and she refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. She also knew that she was lucky that Cáel looked like his father and his father’s family. Otherwise, convincing anyone other than Malcolm that Cáel was his would have been difficult, if not impossible. “I know this because of the ritual. Only a child created through the ritual could have attracted and maintained the Old God’s soul, not just any child of a Grey Warden could have done that. If it had not worked, Riordan would have died on the top of Fort Drakon, and he did not. His eyes opened afterward, and he was clearly confused at finding himself alive.” Indeed, she had nearly burst into nervous laughter upon seeing the Senior Warden’s facial expression on waking.

“How did—”

“I was there. I did not abandon you or your brother or any other companion with whom we traveled during the Blight. I also had to ensure that the ritual was completed once the final blow was struck.” _And to be sure Malcolm lived_. But Alistair did not need to know that part, so she did not tell him.

He grinned a friendly, boyish grin that reminded Morrigan far too much of Malcolm and how he and Alistair shared blood. Alistair’s next words did not help with keeping herself from being reminded of her love—former love—father of her son, whatever he was to her now. “Aw, you liked us, didn’t you? You just didn’t want us catching on.”

“I tolerated you. I liked others, perhaps. It does not matter.” It did not matter because, in the end, nothing was meant to be. She had tasks to complete that Malcolm could not be a part of because he had tasks here that required him. There were people here who needed him, as well, like Alistair, for example. 

“It does matter, you know. I know Flemeth probably told you that what you feel doesn’t matter, but it really does. It’s what it means to be human, if you’re human, or elven or dwarven, if you’re one of those.”

“Considering my mother, you might want to entertain the possibility that I am not entirely human.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s more than a little creepy of you.” He turned and peeked through the aravel’s open window at the two sleeping babes. “He looks human. No scales or witchiness about him.” Then he glanced back over at Morrigan. “You still look kind of witchy, though.”

Maybe Malcolm wouldn’t be that horribly disappointed if she did something awful to his brother. Perhaps setting his hair on fire wouldn’t be terribly out of order. Alistair was certainly asking for it. “And you still look like a dolt.”

Of course, he took the insult in stride and it rolled right off him, infuriating Theirin that he was. “Why didn’t you say anything before? You could’ve contacted him, contacted me, maybe have sent one of the Dalish or something—”

“It was not the time. Now is even not the time. No one else must know. Wynne has agreed to secrecy if you agree to keep this quiet. Rumors cannot get out.”

He smirked. “Morrigan, if your hope was to stem the rumors, then you’ve already missed the chance the stop them. They’re everywhere in Ferelden. Verified rumors, however, we can stop, for now. But why? Why would—”

“I wish to tell him myself.”

Alistair rubbed at his chin. “So you were planning on telling him?”

“Yes. I must—” She stopped and looked away, eyes blinking rapidly against the sting of damnable tears. Her emotions still had not settled since the birth. That must be it. She would not show this weakness, not to him, not to anyone. She took a settling breath and released it before resuming her speaking, her voice strong once more. “I must leave him here when I go with Cianán to Arlathan. Cáel will have no place there, and so he must remain here with his father.”

Alistair was quiet for a moment, seemingly taking in her words. Amazing that normally such a talkative man was able to practice moments of silent contemplation. Perhaps those years in the Chantry had not been wasted, after all. Then he asked, “Is that what you want?”

“What I want is unimportant. What is best for both boys is what’s important. It’s best for Cianán to be raised and trained amongst the elves of Arlathan. It’s best for Cáel to remain here and be raised by his father.” Then she nodded her head toward Alistair. “And his extended family. I recognize that it is important to Malcolm and to you, given what you both experienced as children.”

“I met my mother, you know, while you were gone.” His voice hitched strangely, and he turned his attention back to the babes in the aravel. “She was kind of awesome and a little scary, to be honest. She had a really intimidating glare when she was angry.”

“You angered your mother? I am surprised after the wishes you’d expressed about having one.”

He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t _mean_ to, it just happened. It was about that mission we had up in Drake’s Fall. I wasn’t supposed to go. It was a Warden thing, not a King’s job. But—”

“You were bored.”

“How did you know?”

“You are not unlike a small child at times, Alistair.” She let out a small sigh. “And Malcolm is the same. Let me guess: you found him and convinced him through guilt to let you go with them?”

“Pretty much. Maker, for someone who grew up lonely in the Wilds, you certainly paid a lot of attention to everyone’s behavior.”

“I spent nearly a year traveling in your company. ‘Tis not a surprise I learned of your personalities, and your many faults.” Sometimes, she regretted that year, even though she’d managed to have the Old God child in the end. Had she not traveled with them, she would not have discovered her propensity for weakness. Yet, had she not traveled with them, she would not have involved herself with Malcolm, an experience that was both a weakness, and at times, a strength. And looking upon Cáel as he slept, she could not bring herself to regret him, even if what had brought him into existence could never be again.

“Can’t deny those.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, it was a mess up there. The Architect got his hands on us, but a captured, tainted templar ghoul—don’t ask, it’s a nasty, ugly story—managed to free us. We got chased by the Architect and his minions—you know, I should really look into getting some minions of my own, it must come in really handy—we thought we were done for. But, Líadan managed to do this awesome spell that collided with the Architect’s, and it blew everything up and collapsed everything behind us to seal away the Architect and the darkspawn for at least the winter.” Then he stopped and frowned, as if remembering a particularly unpleasant memory. Malcolm sometimes got the same look. “That’s when Líadan was trapped. We didn’t think—”

Morrigan felt a flare of anger, at the recklessness she heard in the tale exercised by her former companions, some of whom she would have named friends, once. “No, you did not. Her magic isn’t strong enough for the spell she tried. She should have known better of the dangers. She could have gotten herself killed.”

“She almost did. It was close. They had to dig her out while some of us went for help.”

“And she is—”

“She’s fine. She’s helping Malcolm find you, though Maker knows where they are right now. Anyway, once we got back to Highever, Fiona—she’s my mother—was fit to be tied. Her glare was something to scurry and _hide_ from. I’m telling you, it could’ve burned holes straight through the back of my neck.”

Interesting. It seemed Theirins tended to choose strong women, then, at least in the past couple of generations. “Where is she now? If wishes to know—”

“She’s dead.” His statement was flat, as if he’d tried to separate himself from the truth by entirely denying the emotions associated with it, but his eyes carried the hurt as they returned to look in the aravel. “It’s too bad. I think she would have liked being a grandmother.”

Morrigan was surprised to find that she felt bad. She did not like that Fiona was dead. From what she had read of the letters Malcolm had shared with her during the Blight, Fiona had seemed a strong, able woman, a powerful mage, and certainly someone worthy of being a strong influence in Cáel’s life. And now she was gone, as well as the boy’s only real chance to have a grandmother. Flemeth certainly wouldn’t be filling that role properly, not with either child. “I am sorry.”

He sighed and turned to face her. “You’re really going to give him up?”

She felt like pulling out her hair. “Yes. Why must everyone question my decision?”

“Because it isn’t something you see very often, a mother readily giving up her child when she’s capable of caring for it.” Alistair truly seemed bewildered.

“Your own mother did the same.”

“Yes, and that turned out wonderfully, didn’t it?”

“Not for you, perhaps. You were done ill service, I admit. Malcolm, however, was not. You should have been raised as he was. It would have prepared you better for the kingship. But that is neither here nor there. I know that Malcolm will not raise our son like Eamon raised you, or did not raise you, as the case may be.”

Alistair pressed his forehead against the wood panel above the aravel’s window. “No, he won’t. But with you gone, Cáel won’t have a mother, just as I didn’t.”

“And if I take Cáel through the eluvian with me, he will not have a father, just as you did not. He will also not have proper training.”

Her statement made Alistair turn around again. “What do you mean? I know you’re an apostate and all, but I also happen to know you’re a good teacher when you want to be, and that you also know your stuff cold. If you had the right mage pupil, like a child of your own, I don’t doubt that you could teach them without Circle oversight.”

“I do not think he will be a mage.”

Alistair raised a skeptical brow. “Really? Even with you as the mother, Flemeth as one grandmother, and Fiona as the other, you don’t think that Cáel will be a mage? He’s practically guaranteed to become one with his bloodlines.”

“I have my reasons and I will not be telling you. Not right now. I need to discuss them with Malcolm first.” She would far prefer it for both her sons to become mages, as long as she had control over their schooling. Yet, Lanaya had foretold that Cáel would end up King of Ferelden, a fate she would never want a child of hers to have. Not after hearing the history of Ferelden, of living through the civil war that took place during the Blight, of knowing the dark treachery found within the nobility of every country and city-state in Thedas. Were her son a mage, demons could hunt and plague him, but the darkness of men was just as dangerous, if not more. But if Lanaya’s prediction were to come to pass, Cáel would need to be better prepared than the well-meaning but simple Cailan or the taken-by-surprise but luckily decent Alistair. 

He sighed and half-heartedly waved her off. “Fine, fine. Don’t tell me. Keep the King in the dark. Whatever. So you’re talking about martial training, then? I mean, if you don’t think he’s going to be a mage and you want him here with Malcolm, partly to make sure he’s trained, then you must mean that, right?”

“I would not want my son unable to defend himself. I would also not want him to be uneducated. Raised in the Wilds I may be, but I am not without knowledge both practical and scholarly. ” She would also have to tell Malcolm not to fill the boy with silly, mythical, or legendary tales from history, lest he get ideas of grandeur, like his already-dead uncle who had died in a vain attempt at glory. 

“Yes.” He narrowed his eyes. “Yes, you are frightfully smart, and you _know_ it, which is half the problem. Or most of the problem. Either-or. My wife’s the same way. Strange that I never really noticed that before.” His expression changed from mock suspicion to troubled, his feelings as easily visible on his normally bright visage as the passing of a storm cloud on a sunny day. “Still, I don’t like the idea of repeating this motherless thing for the second generation in a row. Our mother gave us up to our father, and now you’re giving your son up to his father.”

“But he will raise the boy as his own, as he should, unlike your father.” She knew Malcolm well enough to know that he would not repeat the mistakes of his father. Unless he had changed into someone drastically different from the man she’d loved almost a year ago. No, he could not have changed that much. He would still fundamentally be himself, no matter what had happened in the interim.

“Yes, he would. I think you’re using me for practice for when you have this discussion with him. You know he’ll say the same as me. Probably more loudly, though.”

There was enough truth in Alistair’s statement that she could not rightly deny it. “Mere preparation.”

Alistair snorted. “Sure.” Then he shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe what went wrong with some of us Theirins is that we didn’t have mothers or good mother figures around. I had the Chantry, but I think your mother was more motherly than the Revered Mothers, and Cailan’s mother died when he was three or four or something. He was really young, and Maric never remarried. And now you’re handing Cáel over to Malcolm, and taking off for that that dreamy-place—”

“Arlathan. It’s in Setheneran, a place beyond both Thedas and the Fade.”

He nodded, not looking at all put off by her correction. “I know. Setheneran literally means ‘waking dream-place’ or something like that.” At her surprised look, he held up his hands and shrugged. “What? Don’t look so shocked. Besides, Malcolm spent all winter while cooped up in Denerim trying to learn Elvish from Líadan. He did his best, but he can still barely speak it without botching it up. He can read it, though, so there’s that, but he’s fairly hopeless at the talking part. Líadan would do her best to encourage him, but he’d say something _awful_ and she’d get this horrified look on her face, and...” he trailed off and looked over at Morrigan. “You probably don’t want to hear about that, do you?”

“He and I were over. Are over. It was expected that he would move on. You need not censor yourself for my benefit.” She did her best to sound dismissive and was proud of the resulting strength in her tone and posture.

Alistair, however, didn’t look terribly convinced. “Are you sure? Because they got kind of, um, cozy, I guess you could say. Have been for a few months and I think it suits both of them. Took them both a while to come around, but once they did, it mostly worked it—”

She couldn’t take it, hearing that from Alistair. “I lied. Please speak of something else.” It wasn’t like she hadn’t planned on this happening or hadn’t wanted it to happen, in part. She had left him and she wanted him to be happy, to live his life. She would need to live hers, after all, and would need to fully move on as well, once she passed their son to him. While strength could be found in love, only weakness remained in pining over someone. It had been her choice to end things, her choice to leave the first time, and it was her choice to leave this last time. As for someone to keep him company, she could not have chosen a better woman since she would be gone. If they remained together, perhaps Líadan might even help raise Cáel. She would be a very good female role model, another strong, capable woman. Yes. It would help her son. She would focus on that, and not this visceral, stinging regret that seemed to plague her when she least expected it. 

 

For once, Alistair did not pry further on a sensitive subject. He nodded, as if he truly understood, and then asked in a light tone, “So what made you choose Cáel, anyway?”

She blinked as she tried to focus her mind on the subject he’d brought up. There. She easily found her frustration at Panowen for changing her son’s name. “I did not choose it.”

“What?” Alistair outright laughed. “Since when do you do anything or agree to anything you have not chosen?”

 _Since Malcolm refused me and I had to do the ritual with Zevran_. “‘Tis a nickname, given to him by the Dalish. It has... stuck, despite my objections, and now I find myself using it as well, much to my dismay.” She would never admit it to Panowen or the other Dalish, but Cáel seemed to fit her son better than Cináed, at least for now, while he was so small. 

“So... why did they start calling him that? Did you give him a horrible name like Archibald? Or Drust? Or Feidlimid? Gwrtheyrn, maybe? Or—”

“No, nothing so horrible. His given name is Cináed.”

Alistair pursed his lips in thought. “Okay, that’s not a bad name. Kind of manly for a baby, though, really. It’s all powerful and adult-like. Though I’m not seeing how they shortened that into Cáel.”

She held in another sigh. “It means slender or lanky. He was long when he was born, body-wise. Certainly longer than Cianán and even a little longer than an elven child who had been born two weeks before. It was shorter and easier to say than Cináed, so it remained.”

“Neither one of them are bad names, really.” He peeked into the aravel’s window again. “Kind of strange to realize I have an actual nephew.” Then he pushed away from the aravel and looked at Morrigan. “When he’s awake and better, would you let me hold him?”

Morrigan balked. While she wasn’t disinclined to grant his request out of hand—after all, much earlier in evening, she had practically thrust Cianán into Alistair’s unsuspecting arms—something within her wanted the first human Fereldan to hold Cáel to be his father. Though Malcolm would not be the first to know, she could still allow for him to be the first to hold him other than herself or a member of the Ra’asiel clan of the Dalish. Even Wynne had not been allowed to hold the babe while healing him. “I...” She had to tell him the truth or he would sulk for days. “I wish for Malcolm to hold him first. You may meet him, as much as one can meet an infant, and if anything happens to me before I am able to see Malcolm, you must take him. But, otherwise, I...” She faltered again and cursed inwardly.

He gave her a smile, one of enough understanding to warm her to him, and yet contained just enough pity to irritate her, keeping the status quo of how she felt about Alistair. “Fair enough. I suppose since I was so nosy, it’s my own fault. But I can hold him after, right?”

She nodded. “You may hold him after.”

“Good.” Then he suddenly lunged forward, and in a show of exuberance, hugged her. 

It was over quickly, but not soon enough for Morrigan, who nearly set him on fire for such audacity. “That was not necessary,” she told him as she brushed herself off and moved stiffly away from him.

His grin was almost infectious. “Yes, it was. Your plan worked, and even though we all thought it was evil, it turned out not to be. And, as a bonus, I’ve got a nephew. Granted, I can’t go spreading the news, but I think it’s okay to be a little giddy. You should try it sometime. It’s fun. If you get giddy enough, it’s like being drunk.”

“I have not been, nor do I ever plan to be, drunk.” She could not stand the loss of control that inebriation tended to bring with it, nor did she ever want to act like a slobbering fool such as Oghren. No. She would not partake to excess in anything. 

“Well, you’re missing out.”

“If I am, I am perfectly fine with it. Now, if you will excuse me, I will see to my sons and get some sleep. We have a dragon to look for tomorrow, if she does not find us first.” Then she ducked into the aravel, leaving Alistair chuckling behind her. 

The next morning, Cáel was as healthy as his brother, and her outlook brightened, when before she hadn’t even realized it had dimmed.

At the crossroads, scouts reported in, bringing news that the high dragon had last been seen flying back into the upper reaches of Drake’s Fall. On hearing that, Alistair held a quick conference, and then sent most of the soldiers toward the Highever proper on the opposite side of the coastal mountains to help the teyrn’s troops and guard what people and livestock might remain. Wynne stayed behind with the King, as well as a small detachment of the Royal Guard, and the two Grey Wardens who had accompanied them from Gherlen’s Pass. 

Morrigan wasn’t exactly sure, but she was fairly certain one of the soldiers marching away sounded disappointed that they hadn’t found the high dragon, and wouldn’t be going after it. She raised an eyebrow in his direction, and then noticed that Warden Nathaniel was doing the same. He paused and nodded to her when he was returning his attention to the King, and she realized she had no idea what to make of that, nor did she have time to. She did not like that it unsettled her so.

While she had witnessed the aravels of the Dalish travel through thick forests with ease, she had not seen them travel up possibly steep mountains while coursing through even thicker amounts of trees. The question was answered minutes later when Lanaya declared that the aravels would be left at the base of the mountain when they reached it that afternoon to make a camp for most of the clan. Half the hunters would stay, and the other half would continue up into Drake’s Fall with the party searching for the eluvian. Concern furrowed the keeper’s brow, concern that she had expressed to Morrigan earlier about Ariane and her party not having yet made a rendezvous. Varathorn insisted they would be fine and were perhaps just following a clue, but Lanaya was not convinced. Neither was Morrigan. She would have far preferred Ariane over Karam when it came to bodyguards, but she had no other choice, not when they were had such a pressing schedule. Flemeth would soon catch up with them. It was only a matter of time.

It took three more days to reach the clearing Alistair had spoken of. In that time, Morrigan pored over books with Lanaya in the nightly camps, seeking out possible new spells to aid in defeating a high dragon. They knew the eluvian as well as could be expected. As long as the one in this place was not corrupted or otherwise broken, it should work.

It had to work.

And each night, Alistair still came by their fire, but his questions had lessened to a tolerable level, meaning that Morrigan could politely ignore him and he wouldn’t kick up much of a fuss. Nathaniel, however, did not cooperate with her plan for peace. Instead, he asked questions. Oh, he certainly spoke far less and asked fewer questions than the King, but Nathaniel’s inquiries were more pointed, more deep, unwelcome, and mostly infuriating. He had no right to know the depth of her plans for the future, no right to question what she had to do. And he certainly had no right to ask her how she intended to protect her son from the darkspawn should they have somehow found a way to infiltrate Arlathan. He had shot her with an arrow and caused her to collapse in a humiliating heap at the feet of several witnesses. ‘Twas not something she would easily forgive and he would do well to remember.

“I believe, if we come face to face with this dragon,” said Lanaya, “I should pray to Dirthamen for his assistance.”

Morrigan broke off her glare leveled at Nathaniel to fix the keeper with a bewildered look, convinced that Lanaya had lost possession of her faculties. “Your gods are locked away and have done nothing for millennia. Why would you waste your time attempting to communicate with them?”

She showed Morrigan the illustration on the page her book was open to. “To try and summon a varterral. It’s why they were originally created: to protect elves from the ravages of a high dragon. Only later did they become associated with caches of _elvhenan_ relics. Besides, if there’s truly an eluvian here, there needs to be a varterral to protect it.”

“I have not forgotten our encounter with the varterral at the White Spire. I am certainly not eager to meet another one of these creatures.”

Alistair frowned. “What’s a varterral?”

Morrigan let Lanaya explain. Keepers were far better for storytelling, even though the varterral had proven not to be a mythical beast, much like the high dragons as of late.

“Maker’s breath,” said Alistair after Lanaya finished her tale. “You want to summon one of those on purpose?”

Lanaya nodded. “Yes. It would fight the high dragon for us, leaving us free to finish our task of sending Morrigan and Cianán on their way.”

“I would not turn down the chance to avoid a fight with a high dragon, your Majesty,” said Nathaniel as the King pondered. “Especially if the high dragon doing the attacking is out for revenge. Oghren did cut off half her tail. I’m fairly certain she’s got a vendetta.”

“You make a fair point.” Alistair nodded to the keeper. “All right. Tomorrow, if the dragon shows, we’ll try your plan first. Better to save men and win than try to gain glory and maybe win. You tend to end up less dead, I’ve found.”

Morrigan noticed Alistair’s seemingly newly found maturity, but did not mention it out loud. Instead, she asked, “What of the darkspawn? Have you sensed any?”

Alistair shook his head. “No. I haven’t sensed a single one and I’m wondering where they’ve all gone. It isn’t like the Architect had finished his work, not in the least. Maybe it was the dragon, maybe it was something else, but so far, nothing. I still want Nathaniel and Mhairi and possibly a Dalish hunter to scout ahead in that right tunnel come morning. The risk to Cianán is too great to go in without any prior knowledge.”

On that, she could not disagree.

At dawn, Nathaniel was sent out of the camp with a Dalish hunter and Warden Mhairi to scout for the presence of darkspawn in the tunnels, the dwarves having long disappeared with the Wardens to try and deal with the dragon when it was in Highever. Two hours passed as they waited in the clearing for the party to return. Morrigan spent the time either with her sons or investigating the decidedly Tevinter towers, the collapsed dwarven statue, or the pile of bones that looked suspiciously like the partial tail of a dragon. Alistair saw her studying the bones and laughed. “That’s got to be the tail Oghren chopped off.”

“You left it here to rot? You wasted a valuable resource such as that?”

He rolled his eyes. “You sound like Herren. Or Wade. One of them. Or both, I can never tell them apart properly.”

“At least I am with good company, then.” 

“We were distracted. We had an injured person, remember? It was more important to escort her out of the mountains than it was to carry out half a dragon’s tail.”

“I meant—”

The dwarven sealing doors opened at the far end of the clearing, and three people walked out, their appearance cutting off Morrigan’s reply. Mhairi led the group, while Nathaniel frowned at a mechanism on the door and the Dalish hunter who’d gone with them asked him questions. As Mhairi walked out the small tunnel between the cirque and the door, a roar echoed along the sheer rock walls.

“Dragon!” one of the Royal Guard shouted and the air filled with the ringing of blades being drawn, covering the sound of arrows being nocked and bows being readied. 

The high dragon, crimson scales brilliantly reflecting the early summer light, swooped down into the clearing and straight at Mhairi. It ignored Mhairi’s sweep with her sword and snatched her up in a front talon before flying straight back up. 

Morrigan heard Lanaya begin her prayer to Dirthamen, but didn’t hold any hope for intervention. Alistair shouted for Nathaniel and the hunter to stay put since they were the most safe and Nathaniel shouted back that they had found no darkspawn. The Dalish archers loosed their first volley of arrows while Lanaya continued her prayer, and Morrigan began strategizing her magic. It would be more helpful for the keeper to use her root-controlling spell to hold the high dragon in place once it landed again instead of wasting her time praying to a god who would never answer. After frowning at the keeper, Morrigan glanced over to confirm that Panowen and Karam had Cianán, Cáel, and a fully recovered Elin in relative safety. Then she drew her staff and started preparing spells. _She_ would be useful, even if Lanaya was determined not to be.

The dragon roared again and Mhairi came hurtling through the air, plummeting straight down as if from the clouds themselves. She screamed until she hit the rough, ancient stone of the fallen dwarven statue, where she landed with a crunch and went mercifully silent. Morrigan hoped it was a quick death, for the Warden had at least done well in distracting the dragon.

Then another thing came falling from the sky, appearing over the flying dragon and grabbing onto it with its spider-like legs. 

“A varterral!” shouted one of the hunters. 

Morrigan was suddenly very grateful she had not told Lanaya out loud that she was wasting her time and never so happy to be proven wrong. This varterral was fortuitous indeed, so long as it did not attack them. She looked at Alistair. “Humans will not be able to pass the varterral on the way back. It is distracted now, but it will not be once its fight is over. You are human.” She hoped that Alistair wouldn’t prove as dense as he sometimes could be. Even she knew that him walking past the varterral would be too much proof of his elven blood.

He nodded, eyes flashing in understanding. “Right.” Then he turned and ordered his guards to retreat out of the cirque and the territory of the varterral. 

Lanaya, smiling broadly at her ploy having worked, began sending the hunters through, some carrying needed supplies, skirting around or underneath the grappling beasts. Morrigan exchanged one last glance with Alistair, imploring that he understand that he needed to send Malcolm here once he saw him. He gave her a curt nod, proving for the second time in a short while that he, as he often insisted, was not stupid. Morrigan and Lanaya ran with Panowen and Karam, the last of the hunters forming a circle around them, and headed for the tunnel.

As the last hunter passed through the sealing door, Morrigan saw both dragon and varterral fall out of the sky, and felt the ground shudder when they hit the clearing. Then Nathaniel closed the door and locked it before their luck could run out. 

He led them quickly and quietly through the tunnels, taking a right at the first intersection, and then another right as Morrigan and Lanaya consulted their map. After a few hours of traveling and one stop for a meal for adults and infants alike, they walked into an enormous cavern littered with Tevinter and elven artifacts. In the middle of the area, set upon a dais, rested an eluvian.

Morrigan’s heart began to beat faster as her hope rose. She and Lanaya walked toward it as quickly as decorum allowed while the hunters began to find a place to set up a proper camp. Nathaniel followed Morrigan and the keeper, but they paid him no mind, too intent on the eluvian. “The statues are of Falon’Din and Dirthamen,” said Lanaya as they got close.

“They have not been tampered with?” asked Morrigan.

The keeper ran a finger over the arm of Falon’Din. “No. Not that I can see.”

As Lanaya continued her inspection, consulting the book in her hand every now and then, Nathaniel turned to Morrigan. “So is this what you are looking for?”

“If unbroken and can be made to function properly, yes.” 

He looked between her and the mirror. “Is this what you want?”

She frowned. “‘Tis not your question to ask.” Then she brushed past him to join Lanaya in studying the eluvian. The dulled surface called to her as soon as she looked directly at it. She could see something in it. Yes, she could see Arlathan in the distance, untainted, untouched by the outside world for over a millennium. She would go there with her son, he would learn the old ways of magic, and they would prepare. But first she had to wait for her research to be finished, and for Malcolm to arrive. It would not be long.

**Alistair**

Silence had fallen over the cirque, and Alistair, Wynne, and one of his Royal Guards chanced to look through the narrow gap. The varterral, that strange, spider-like creature the Dalish had summoned, stood triumphantly over the cooling corpse of a high dragon. It stared straight at the three humans in the gap, tilting its head and maintaining eye contact as if daring them to try and enter his territory. 

Alistair was of no mind to take up the dare. He believed he knew providence when he saw it and wasn’t going to question a gift granted like that one. “Fall back,” he said, somewhat unnecessarily since Wynne and the soldier were already walking back toward where the others waited. He felt badly that he couldn’t retrieve Mhairi’s body, but there was nothing for it, not with that varterral there. At least the varterral wouldn’t mutilate the corpse or anything and the cold would keep it preserved, or so he assumed on both counts. 

“What will you do now?” Wynne asked as he approached her.

“Go to Highever and help Fergus. There’s nothing we can do here, not with that varterral. It’s more dangerous to stay than it is to go, and Highever needs to know that the high dragon is dead. Fergus will also need help with the cleaning up and any recovery efforts.” He inclined his head toward Wynne. “Folks will probably need healers, too.”

She frowned. “I wish I could have done something about that young woman.”

“She died well, at least. Not a stupid accident or even killed by darkspawn. Not everyone can say they were killed by a high dragon. Well, they can’t say it because they’re dead, unless they’re undead, but you know what I mean. Then again, since the dragon was on a rampage, maybe there’s more folks who’ve been killed by high dragons than usual—”

“Alistair.”

“Rambling, sorry. Anyway, we’ll head back down to the Dalish camp and let them know what happened. I’ll see if they’ll be open to recovering Mhairi’s body since the varterral won’t attack them and see if they can have a small party watching for anyone to come out of the passage. Then it’s on to Highever, helping Fergus, and hoping my brother shows up before his ex takes off.” He motioned to his troops to set off back down the trail after him, and then went back to talking with Wynne. “He’d better get here in time. Except I’m not even sure when that time is, considering she was never really clear about the time thing. More like incredibly vague.”

Wynne scowled. “She should have told him sooner.”

“She’ll tell him when she wants to and not a moment sooner. She’s Morrigan. She does what she wants.”

“Except when she does not. Alistair, don’t assume that what she is doing is easy for her. She has bonded with the child. I saw evidence of it enough the night I helped with the illnesses. This will be incredibly difficult for her, and a pain I would wish on no one, not even an enemy.”

He ducked his head, feeling rightfully chastised. He’d entirely forgotten about Wynne’s child, the one she’d had to give up right after his birth in the Circle. “I apologize. I didn’t mean any—”

She gave his arm a kindly pat. “I know you didn’t. Just do not assume you know how she feels or that she does what she wants. I believe what we see is her exacting control of her life in the few places that she can while she fights to remain free of Flemeth. And soon, if her plan works, she will have freedom, but she will not be free.”

“That’s... very profound. And probably true.”

When they arrived at the Dalish camp days later, they found a messenger who’d been sent from Vigil’s Keep getting ready to come find Alistair up in the mountains. He nearly fell over backwards at seeing the King stepping off the trail and it took him a few moments before he could give his message. “Your Majesty, I came from Vigil’s Keep and reported this to Highever on my way through. There’s fleets off the coast. Some ships are flying Tevinter’s colors and another flies an unknown color. But people in the ports are saying that the people on the unknown ships could be the qunari.”

“This could be a problem,” said Alistair, doing his best to ignore the gasps and curses coming from his guards nearby. Tevinter they could fend off, he believed. But the qunari? After what Sten had told him of the qunari’s naval capabilities, if the qunari were after Ferelden and not merely chasing the Tevinters, the northern coast and possibly the entire country was at risk. He turned his attention back to the messenger. “Have you rested? Eaten?”

He shook his head. “No, your Majesty.”

“Go and see to your horse and yourself. Eat, rest, and then I will give you a message to bring back to Highever. The teyrn is there?”

“Yes, your Majesty.” The messenger half turned, and then stopped to look at Alistair. “Your Majesty, you should know that half of Highever Castle has been largely destroyed by the rampaging dragon. The city is intact, thank the Maker. Fields and sheep, however, are burned or eaten or missing or in conditions I don’t really want to contemplate.”

Alistair held in a sigh. “And the population?”

“Not as many dead as you would think with destruction like that, your Majesty. The south saw worse in the Blight. Highever will pull through.”

He nodded. “Thank you. Dismissed.”

In the morning, Alistair dispatched the messenger before he left with his guards and Wynne. The unburdened man would travel faster and reach Highever in less than half a day with a fresh horse. As Alistair and his group reached the crossroads, another rider appeared along the road from the Frostbacks. Noting how quickly the woman was riding, Alistair held his party and waited to see who it was.

She was out of breath when she halted in front of them. “Begging your pardon, your Majesty, just give me a moment.”

“Take your time. Can’t reasonably expect you to give a report if you’re out of breath.”

“No report.” She worked on her breathing and dug folded parchment out of her saddleback. Then she handed it to Alistair. “Message from the Queen.”

After giving the woman a curious look, Alistair cracked open the wax and unfolded the message to read his wife’s tight, neat handwriting. 

_Alistair,_

_Templars were not diverted and have made it past Orzammar and through Gherlen’s Pass. They are heading in a northernly direction along the Fereldan section of the Imperial Highway. They are intent on reaching Highever. They do not care that we know where they are, such is their arrogance. There are not enough Fereldan troops here to make a difference. Teyrna Cauthrien has still not arrived. We will press north with all due haste once she appears._

_You must waylay them. They will not simply snatch up a weak Ferelden after our country managed to live through, and end, a Blight._

_Anora_

Alistair crumpled the parchment in his hand and pressed it against his forehead. Even Maric didn’t have to face this many enemies at once.

“What is it, Alistair?” Wynne asked quietly.

He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then let it go. He could do this. Ferelden could still be saved. He simply had to figure his way out of the maze. Another breath and his confidence returned. He turned to answer Wynne, but he addressed everyone in his small retinue. “The Orlesian templars march on Highever.”


	86. Chapter 86

**Chapter 86**

“There is precious little we know about Fen’Harel, for they say he did not care for our people. Elgar’nan and Mythal created the world as we know it, Andruil taught us the Ways of the Hunter, Sylaise and June gave us fire and crafting, but Fen’Harel kept to himself and plotted the betrayal of all the gods. And after the destruction of Arlathan, when the gods could no longer hear our prayers, it is said that Fen’Harel spent centuries in a far corner of the earth, giggling madly and hugging himself in glee.”

—from _The Tale of Fen’Harel’s Triumph_ , as told by Gisharel, keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish

**Malcolm**

“And here I thought, after all these years,” Malcolm said as the group stood on a ridge at the northern end of the Hundred Pillars, overlooking a valley that the maps claimed to be Arlathan Forest, “that Arlathan would’ve looked a little less apocalyptic. Weathered, if you will, and perhaps somewhat overgrown.” The vista spread below them was less a verdant forest and more an ash-covered wasteland. He frowned and dug one of the maps from the case. “I think we took a wrong turn at Tantervale. Not only is there supposed to be a huge, old forest here, but there’s also supposed to be a mountain called the White Spire on the other side of this valley.” He squinted into the distance, seeing low-hanging clouds and the bluish shadow of what looked to be half a mountain. “Or maybe that mountain decided to move. Can’t be good when mountains decide to do that. I hear there’s fire involved.”

“The eruption would have been visible for miles, and yet no one informed us,” said Sten.

Sigrun had finished pulling out her spyglass and lifted it to her left eye. “Maybe they thought we were studying it.”

“Yes, because each of us seems the studious type,” said Anders. “Oghren, especially.”

“Depends on what I’m studying.” Oghren cast an appreciative look at Sigrun’s rear. “Yep.”

Sigrun made a rude gesture with her hand toward Oghren, but kept looking through the spyglass. “I think there’s people on that slope out there. There’s stuff moving, anyway. I think it’s people. I could be wrong, since it’s awfully far away.” She moved the spyglass away from her face and asked Malcolm, “How many days’ travel to get there?”

He gave up squinting at the distant half-mountain and looked down at the map. “About three days, depending on if we run into anyone or anything. Though I question why we should even bother going all the way over there. It’s destroyed. There’s still smoke rising.” He pointed toward what was left of the White Spire. “You can tell from that smudge on the horizon.”

“That doesn’t mean there aren’t artifacts that could still be recovered,” said Líadan.  

Malcolm raised an eyebrow at her.

She sighed. “Okay, so I was trying to be optimistic. I’m honestly not really convinced we’ll find an eluvian there. Or, you know, anything of use.” Muttering under her breath, she mounted her horse and started down the trail to the valley floor. After exchanging bewildered looks, the rest of the Wardens followed suit. 

Over the next few days, they picked their way through the edges of the Arlathan Forest, using the column of smoke that marked the remains of the White Spire as their navigational aid. In the course of their travels north from Sundermount, Sten had proven surprisingly good at scouting in the woods. When Malcolm commented on it, Sten had given him a disdainful look and informed him that the _Beresaad_ was _comprised_ of scouts. “Right, I knew that,” Malcolm told him, and then found something else to focus on when Sten snorted in derision.

They’d spent another day with the Mahariel clan after finding out where Morrigan had gone and about Merrill having a piece of the eluvian. Cammen and Gheyna had requested they stay and witness their bonding ceremony with the rest of the clan, and Malcolm and the other Wardens were trying to decide which direction to take next with their search in the meantime. It had been a nice ceremony, he supposed, but awkward, considering the glares Fenarel had constantly given him and Líadan. Marethari hadn’t said one word or another about Malcolm and Líadan, at least, not to their faces, or even behind their backs, from what he or anyone else could tell. They weren’t made to feel any less unwelcome than before, yet the pressure Líadan had been getting from most of the clan to remain and become Marethari’s First had dissipated. 

That happenstance was what told them the most of what the clan thought. It wasn’t the worst outcome—he’d admittedly had images of them being thrown out of the Dalish camp when the Mahariel found out. So the bristling toleration had been better in comparison to that. Still, they’d wanted to leave the Mahariel clan and Sundermount behind as soon as possible, but not just for reasons relating to their search for Morrigan. Ultimately, they decided that mire of Kirkwall was too risky to attempt finding Merrill and quizzing her about the eluvian. If they couldn’t find Morrigan and the Ra’asiel at the White Spire, they decided they might try to find the former First, but otherwise, they needed to go as directly after Morrigan as they could. 

On the morning they’d left, Malcolm had exited his tent to find Anders walking down a trail that extended to the upper reaches of Sundermount. That _anyone_ would wander up on Sundermount alone surprised him, much less a mage of any strength, not with how thin the Veil was up there. And here was Anders, one of the strongest mages he knew, walking into camp like he’d gone on a morning’s stroll. As far as Malcolm had been told, even Morrigan hadn’t ventured into the upper reaches of the mountain. Then again, he wasn’t sure if that had more to do with Flemeth possibly having been there than the thinness of the Veil. When he questioned Anders about where he’d been, Anders simply told him he’d gone to watch the sunrise. He could believe it, certainly, especially with Anders being one of those abominable morning people, but he wasn’t entirely convinced. During their entire trip north, Malcolm had paid special attention to him, watching for variations in his behavior, remembering his blasphemous thoughts about Andraste being up on Sundermount and becoming possessed by a demon. It wasn’t too far-fetched, not with how they’d found that bound demon in the cavern, and how demons really could just wander through a tear in the Veil if they wanted. 

Anders didn’t seem like a man possessed and didn’t look like an abomination, but he seemed to be acting differently. More serious, perhaps, and not joking as much as he used to. He mentioned it to Líadan, who’d brushed him off, but by the next day, she’d agreed that Anders was acting strangely. But the day after that, in Tantervale, Sigrun had found a ginger tabby kitten and given it to Anders, and Anders had been overjoyed at the gift, dubbing the poor thing Ser Pounce-a-Lot.

Líadan had turned to Malcolm and whispered, “Okay, you’re mistaken. There’s no way he’s possessed. A demon would never name their kitten ‘Ser Pounce-a-Lot.’ And, I don’t think a demon would even _want_ a kitten, not unless they were going to do something horrific to it, like eat it. Creators, that’s awful.” She’d punched him in the arm, scowled, and declared it his fault that she’d thought of something that bad. He hadn’t brought the matter up again, after that. But, to him, Anders still didn’t seem quite himself, even when playing with the kitten.

The closer they got to what was left of the White Spire—definitely not a spire any longer—the more Malcolm began to become afraid that Morrigan and the entire Dalish clan she’d been traveling with had been there whenever the eruption had occurred. If they had been on that mountain, more than likely they would be dead and buried under a thick layer of rock and ash. Half a day out from the mountain, they entered the area where trees had been blown down. They weren’t just little trees, either, but massive ones, trees that must have been a few hundred years old, as tall and large as an alienage’s _vhenadahl_. The wind carried a faint scent of sulphur and hints of acrid smoke. From a small hill, Malcolm could see where the third of the forest closest to the White Spire had been covered and buried under pumice, the whitish-grey rock replacing the green of the trees. He wondered if Arlathan had been destroyed like this by the Tevinters.

As they approached the wasteland that was the base of the White Spire, he wondered if they were walking over the graves of the Ra’asiel and Morrigan, and couldn’t seem to shake the thought. Not wanting to start exploration of a dangerous area so late in the day, they pitched camp in the lee of some large boulders, ones probably carried deep from the earth by the mountain. All of them, except for Sten, had to dig out their cloaks as soon as the sun went down as the temperature in the wasteland plummeted. Concern about Morrigan’s safety plagued Malcolm as he took third watch, climbing up onto one of the boulders for a better view of the area, wordlessly leaving Líadan by the fire, sharpening the blade on her stave. The gibbous moon illuminated the contrasting desolate landscape created by the White Spire’s destruction and the line of the still-intact parts of the Arlathan Forest.

He hoped they had escaped before it was too late, but he was afraid they would have stayed as long as possible, ignoring warning signs he’d read in books that Dragon’s Peak, another mountain in Ferelden that had the same ability to erupt like the White Spire, had given long ago. Morrigan, he knew, might have been too stubborn, wanting to find and gain as much as she could before leaving. And if the eluvian, her possible method of escape, had been here and she had wanted to make it work, she might have refused to leave. 

She could be buried here in the sea of ash.

No pyre, no memorial, no statues or plaques or paintings, only memories, and most of them painful. He couldn’t imagine it fitting for the Dalish, either, even though they buried their dead. No stones standing in memory of the sleeping dead, no trees growing and watching over the entirely dead. Then he realized he didn’t even know what Morrigan would want, were she to die before him. A pyre, most likely, though only for the purpose of practicality—there would be no way Morrigan would want any sort of demon making use of her dead body. She was not one to be used, neither in life nor in death. She wasn’t Andrastian, though. He quite well remembered how she spoke against the Maker and the Chantry. At the same time, she didn’t believe in the Dalish gods, as far as he knew. Perhaps she worshiped like the Chasind. Then again, he had no idea what or who or how the Chasind practiced religion. If he was ever responsible for Morrigan’s funerary rites and got them wrong, she would figure out a way to haunt him for the rest of his days, probably in the form of a spider.

He sighed. It would be best if Morrigan wasn’t dead, for a lot of different reasons, not just because the idea of her ghost terrorizing him scared the daylights out of him.

“Stop brooding and help me up,” Líadan whispered from below.

Malcolm looked over the side of the boulder to see her peering up, trying to determine a way to climb to the top. “Aw, too short?” Líadan scowled and he laughed quietly then leaned over, extending his arms so she could pull herself up. 

She clambered beside him, crossing her legs and settling her staff over them. “Creators, you can see everything from here.”

“Everything the eruption blasted, yeah.” It made a good lookout point, since he’d be able to see any approach to their camp. However, it also did a good job of reminding him just how widespread the destruction had been, and how very unlikely it was that anyone survived.

“I don’t think Morrigan’s dead, not from this or anything else.”

Malcolm looked over at her, surprised that she knew the direction of his thoughts.

She rolled her eyes. “You get a certain look on your face when you think about her. Even now.”

A pang of guilt went through him. “Does it bother you?”

“It used to, as you well know. Then I realized that you aren’t going to stop caring about her, not ever. And I care about her, too, though in a different way. I also worry. She was my friend, as well. But I don’t think she’s dead. I don’t think you would’ve had that dream that you had of her, or dream of _Asha’belannar_ anymore if Morrigan was dead.”

“I know. I tell myself that, but...” He motioned at the landscape, noting the horizon brightening toward dawn. “Then I see this and I wonder if thinking that is a little too hopeful.”

“I don’t think dreaming of _Asha’belannar_ chasing you is hopeful at all.”

“Good point.”

After a moment, she asked, “So what’s that leather case you have with your stuff? The one with the Elvish on it?”

He frowned. Damn her and her observant nature. He wasn’t ready to deal with that yet. Besides, she’d found her stave, so she didn’t need the bow after all. Maybe on her birthday, whenever that was. “Nothing.”

“Nothing.” The flat way she said the word informed him that she didn’t believe him.

He couldn’t blame her. He _was_ a fairly horrible liar. However, he wouldn’t be giving in and telling her. “Nothing.”

A pause. “You know, I do know Master Ilen’s work.”

“I’m sure you do.” He could feel the glare burning into the side of his head and he made sure to keep his gaze straight. If he looked over, he’d cave and tell her. “I’ll tell you sometime, just not right now.”

She huffed. “Fine.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her fingers tracing a grain of the wood on her staff. “Okay, then tell me about something else. When we were on Sundermount, after the incident with the spider and the bound demon, Cammen mentioned something to me. He said that Fenarel didn’t have the courage of Elgar’nan, but that you seemed pretty solid. I asked him what he meant by that and he told me to ask you.”

“We’re totally stopping at Sundermount on the way back so I can kill him.”

“I’m asking—” She stopped and jumped to her feet, staff gripped in her right hand as she peered out into the wasteland. “Someone is approaching the camp. A few someones, actually.”

He stood and squinted in the direction she was looking, but her night vision was half again as good as his, and it took him a few more moments to see it. Then he could—ten figures making their way through a field of rocks, four of them with the outline of bows in their hands, and another carrying a staff, and he couldn’t tell with the rest. “Are they Dalish?” Some of them looked too short and squat to be elven, though. More dwarven.

“Think so. Some of them, anyway.” She put an arm out to hold him back. “How about I do the asking, this time? I’d rather not have you shot full of arrows for threatening when you don’t mean to. Or, really, shot full of arrows at all, now that I think of it.”

“You’re so kind.”

She flashed him a grin, and then jumped down off the boulder. He followed close behind, slinging on his shield in case the suspected Dalish elves decided to use those bows of theirs. Then he drew his sword as Líadan called out, “ _Andaran atish’an_ , travelers. Make yourselves known, for we already know you are approaching our camp.”

“ _Aneth ara,_ Grey Wardens,” said the figure in the lead. He was tall for an elf, Malcolm noted, as tall as the average male human. Also observant, given that he’d noticed the griffon heraldry on their cloaks so quickly. “I am Oisín, First to Keeper Lanaya of the Ra’asiel clan. With me are hunters of my clan and dwarves of the surface. We were on our way out of this place and noticed your camp.”

“What were you doing here?” asked Líadan.

Malcolm wondered how she could stay so calm. These were some of the people Morrigan had traveled with. They could know where she was. She might even be close. Only a warning look from Líadan kept him quiet when he edged forward.

“We were looking to recover bodies and artifacts,” said Oisín, glancing back at the remains of the mountain. “Our clan was camped nearby when the eruption began, and some of our people were on the slopes of the Spire. I had come back in the hopes of finding them, but they are buried. We’ve marked graves and will plant trees in the next camp my clan makes.”

“And the relics?” asked Malcolm, unable to keep quiet any longer.

Líadan pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered something under her breath.

Oisín raised an eyebrow at Líadan, and then looked at Malcolm. “The relics are as buried as our people.”

“Was—” Malcolm paused and glanced over at Líadan, belatedly realizing that perhaps if he’d let her ask these questions, the answers would be more forthcoming since she was Dalish. 

She gave him a dismissive wave of her hand. “Oh, no, go ahead. Ask away. We both know how well the last time went.”

Malcolm held in a sigh, and then turned to Oisín. “You said you were of the Ra’asiel clan? Were you looking for an eluvian, perhaps? Were you here with someone called Morrigan?” As he waited for an answer, he sheathed his sword and removed his shield from his arm.

Oisín tilted his head slightly, his eyes widening as if recognizing Malcolm and Líadan. He addressed her first. “You are Líadan of the Mahariel, are you not? Now of the Grey Wardens?” She nodded, and Oisín nodded back before turning to Malcolm. “And you are—”

“Malcolm. Also impatient. Is—”

“You are so _human_ sometimes,” said Líadan, stepping in front of him. “Please ignore his rudeness. We’ve been searching for Morrigan, but not for reasons you might think. She is in danger from _Asha’belannar_ and we are trying to find her so that we can help her. We know she’s looking for an eluvian. The last we heard from the Mahariel at Sundermount was that Morrigan and the Ra’asiel were going north to the White Spire to search its caverns. We arrived here to find most of the mountain no longer here. We mean you and Morrigan no harm.”

Oisín chuckled, looking truly amused. “I am not offended. Morrigan has traveled with the Ra’asiel for many months. She is even more abrupt and far less forgiving.” He looked at Malcolm. “She is not with us, to answer the question you are about to ask. I and my party were sent north to see what we could recover, as I said. The rest of the clan is in the south. They were in Orlais when we left, near Lydes. They are probably in Ferelden by now and heading for Drake’s Fall. That’s where an eluvian is, one that Morrigan and Keeper Lanaya believe to be uncorrupted by the Tevinters.” 

Malcolm stared at Oisín. “You’re kidding me. We were just... we were... we were there! We were there just a few months ago.”

“More than a few months,” said Líadan. “More like half a year.”

“Three months or six months, we didn’t see any eluvians. Just creepy darkspawn that did creepy things, even for darkspawn. There was that statue of Falon’Din, but it didn’t look like it’d been cut off from anything else, plus there were other relics littered around, both Tevinter and elven. I think we would’ve noticed an eluvian. _You_ would have, certainly.”

She nodded. “Yes. But there was another direction we didn’t even take, remember? The place was huge, so I don’t see why there couldn’t be a cache of artifacts down that other path. Maybe. That high dragon could be a problem, though, if no one went up and took care of it when they went to construct that Deep Roads sealing door.”

Malcolm wanted to leave for Ferelden right then. They had no time to lose, especially if that high dragon was prowling around Drake’s Fall and looking for revenge. “We need to wake everyone and break camp.” Or what if they went up there with an Old God child and the darkspawn were waiting? The babe could be tainted and made into an archdemon and the Blight would start all over again, right next to Highever. How long would it take to get back to Ferelden? They could go by sea this time, head from here to the coast. What was the nearest town with a harbor? Treviso? Ayesleigh? He knew there was one closer than Antiva City. It’d take a week to reach there. But Treviso or maybe Ayesleigh, that’d take, what, two or three days? Then once they were on a ship, it was just a week to Highever if they didn’t stop at any ports and had good wind and were on a decently fast ship. Maker, why had they wandered so far north? So far away from Ferelden? If he’d just waited there, he would have been that much closer to Morrigan and able to help. Instead, he was practically on the other side of Thedas and of no use at all.

A hand grasped his forearm. “Malcolm,” said Líadan. “Now’s not the time to get mired in thought. Oisín has a request, and since you’re technically in charge, you’re the one who has to make the decision.”

He blinked. “Oh, sorry.” Then he looked at the First and the rest of his party.

“We wish to travel with you,” said Oisín. “We need to get back to the Ra’asiel and give them the news. I assure you that we can move swiftly and will not be a hindrance. The dwarves wish to leave us at the next port.”

“That would be Ayesleigh,” said one dwarf.

“No, Treviso,” said another.

The first one scoffed. “Treviso’s port is too small if they want to get a ship to Ferelden. Better they travel the extra day or half-day to Ayesleigh and be assured a ship in a timely manner.”

“Ayesleigh,” said Malcolm. Seemed appropriate, somehow, since it was where the Fourth Blight had been stopped. “We’ll go to Ayesleigh.”

It took three days to reach their chosen port. They traveled to Brynnlaw first for a resupply, but found it covered with ash and abandoned. They trudged onward, relying on backup rations and whatever the Dalish hunters could manage to bring down. Game was scarce, however, due to the eruption at the White Spire, and they ended up eating mostly hardtack and jerky. Immediately on their arrival in Ayesleigh, the dwarves who’d accompanied the Dalish departed. Not wanting to waste any time, Malcolm went straight for the docks to find a ship to take them to Highever.

As they milled about, speaking with sailors and captains and longshoremen, they heard troubling rumors. Some spoke of Tevinter troop movements, sightings of magisters far from home, a possible sighting of the Archon, and more than a few mentions of the movements of a massive Tevinter fleet and a smaller qunari one. Both fleets, one sailor said, were moving south and into the Waking Sea.

“Why would they go there? Tevinter is at war with the qunari. And the qunari don’t care about anyone else. Or so they say,” said Malcolm.

The sailor shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, Warden.”

Once the sailor walked away, Sten said, “The qunari would not be attacking Ferelden. Not yet. It makes no sense for them to do so. Perhaps they are following the Tevinters.”

Malcolm sighed. “Probably. And that makes me wonder what the Tevinters want.”

“Morrigan,” said Líadan. “They want Morrigan. How they know with that much certainty that she’s in Ferelden that they would commit an entire navy, I have no idea, but it seems they do have reason to believe that strongly.”

They finally found a ship heading for Highever after another hour of searching, but it wouldn’t be departing for another week. The only other option they managed to find was a ship leaving with the tide late that afternoon, bound for Ostwick. They opted for the quicker ship. With Ostwick being a larger port, it wouldn’t be too hard to find a ship to Highever. If a Tevinter fleet was in the waters of the Waking Sea off Ferelden’s northern coast, Malcolm hoped they weren’t blocking the ports to merchant ships. Then he wasn’t sure how they’d get into Ferelden quickly, since the only other routes were by land. Perhaps they could stay on the Amaranthine Ocean and run to Denerim or Gwaren, but that would add in more overland travel time. Just getting to Ostwick would take five days.

Anxiety made sleep hard to come by, and he spent most of his time aboard ship up on the open deck, wishing the ship would move faster. He also wished he’d just stayed put and waited patiently in Ferelden instead of insisting on going out and searching for Morrigan. He was useless out here. Líadan did her best to cajole him out of his darker moods, but spent most of their days on the ship seasick. The second time he found her at the stern of the ship, throwing up over the rail, he’d been entirely confused. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked, moving to stand next to her as she leaned over the rail and attempted to recover.

“What does it _look_ like? Seasick.” She kept her eyes on the rudder in the water below.

“I know.” He did his best to sound patient, but knew his tone didn’t come out as nice as it should have. “But we’ve got Anders with us. He usually does that spell for you, doesn’t he? It’s what makes him awesome.”

She sighed. “I might have said something mean to him. I thought I was being clever, but I suppose I wasn’t. I don’t know, but he took offense. Now, for payback, he won’t do that fancy ‘stop vomiting’ spell for me. If he’s possessed, that demon has no sense of humor whatsoever and needs to go straight back to the Beyond.”

“Anything I can do?”

“You could not tease me.”

“Not breathing would be easier, sorry. I could try to find more effective help for you, though. What about Oisín? If he’s a First, he probably knows some healing spells, right? We could ask him.”

“No way. I’ll suffer. I’d like to not deal with any more keepers or Firsts for as long as I can. I’ve had quite enough of them, thank you. I’ll just continue on heaving my guts out.”

“Throwing up is way more undignified than asking him for help, you know. Or apologizing to Anders for whatever it was that you said.”

“I _did_ apologize. He’s just got a stick up his arse. And coming from a Dalish elf, that’s saying a lot.”

Malcolm turned from the rail. “If he’s that bad, I’ll go talk to him.”

She clamped a hand over his wrist, stopping him. “No. No, you will not. I’m the one who offended him, I’ll fix it. I just need to stop throwing up first, and then I’ll sort it out. No need for you to get involved.”

He gently pried her fingers from around his wrist and gave her hand a squeeze. “He’s also someone who is supposedly under my command. What if he’s really possessed?”

“And the best time to deal with that is while we’re out to sea?” She turned from her contemplation of the water to look at him. “Wait until we land. Creators, wait until this entire thing with Morrigan is dealt with if the only evidence we’re seeing of him being possessed is him acting oddly. Maybe he’s just in a mood. Being moody. You do that, sometimes. You have been for the past couple of weeks, even. You—” She spun, wrenching her hand from his, and was sick again. 

“I know, I’ve been moody. I’m sorry. Look, seriously, you can’t keep staying sick like this. Let me talk to Anders or even Oisín. Have you even kept anything down since we boarded the ship?”

She wiped her mouth and frowned. “Maybe. Water, I think. A little. Enough that I’m not dangerously dehydrated.” She pressed her forehead against the wooden railing. “I’ll be fine.”

“No, you won’t, but... fine. It’s your choice.” He didn’t like seeing her suffer, but it was her choice and she wasn’t delirious, so he couldn’t very well override it. It took another day of watching her being constantly sick and not keeping anything down before he decided to risk her wrath and ask for Oisín’s help. He’d respect whatever tiff she’d gotten into with Anders and let her deal with him, but if she kept going without food and barely any water, she’d be at too much risk. Before leaving her in the small cabin with a bucket and the dogs keeping her company, he announced his intentions, giving her time to protest. When she waved weakly at him and said nothing to stop him, he knew that it’d reached a point where intervention was necessary. Maybe now that she’d half-given permission, she’d only maim him for asking for Oisín’s help, and not kill him. He found Oisín’s cabin he shared with the other Dalish elves and knocked on the hatch. 

Oisín opened the hatch and gave him a solemn nod. “Warden Malcolm. Do you need something?”

The man had proven, to Malcolm, to be especially infuriating in regards to answering questions about Morrigan, mostly in that he never answered them, ever. Malcolm realized that this might be the first time he’d spoken with Oisín and not asked about Morrigan. “Do you know any healing spells? Specifically, a healing spell that can alleviate seasickness?”

“I believe I have some that can help. They have at least helped a few of my clanmates who are with me who are not used to the sea. Why? Are you ill?”

“Me? No.” He smiled. “I grew up in a port city and spent a lot of time on ships. But, Líadan, not so much. She can’t heal a tiny cut, much less do a fancy spell for seasickness. She had some sort of argument with our other mage, and he won’t help out, _and_ she won’t let me intervene with him. She barely even agreed to let me approach you for help.”

“I will help,” said Oisín. “If there is as much trouble in Drake’s Fall as you say, she will need to be in her best condition when we arrive. Please, take me to your cabin.”

Once they arrived, Oisín waved him out and Líadan nodded, letting Malcolm know it was safe to trust the First. Besides that, Revas and Gunnar were in the cabin and they wouldn’t let anything happen to her in case Oisín turned out to be unfriendly. Part of Malcolm wanted to go confront Anders about letting a little payback to go way too far, but he refrained, knowing that Líadan wanted that satisfaction herself. There was also no point to him waiting outside in the passageway since it was only a simple healing spell. She’d probably get irritated with him for hanging about, anyway, so he headed for the upper deck.

Up top, he found the captain with his first mate, both of them trading off looking through a spyglass. The second mate stood nearby with another sailor, transcribing what the captain or first mate called out, typical procedure for when they were trading signals with another ship. After a few more minutes, the spyglass was put away and the others dismissed. “What’s going on?” Malcolm asked.

“Guess the rumors turned out to be true,” said the captain. “There’s a large Tevinter fleet right off the coast of Ferelden. They aren’t making any trouble for merchants yet, but they could at any time. There’s some qunari, too, but they seem to be more interested in the Tevinters than they do anyone else, which is normal for them. Glad my last stop is in Ostwick before I turn around and go back to Ayesleigh. I wouldn’t want to get caught up in this mess.”

Malcolm frowned. “My last stop is Highever.”

The captain chuckled. “I hope you’ve got some gold on you, lad. I’m sure captains at Ostwick’s port will go, but they’ll want some gold in compensation for the heightened risk. We’ll be putting into Ostwick in the morning, so you can find out then.” He clapped Malcolm on the back and then strode away.

At dusk, when he ventured belowdecks for the communal meal and noticed that Líadan, Oisín, and Anders hadn’t appeared, he ignored the rest of his food and went in search of them. A confrontation between all three of them could be really, really bad, especially with the propensity for two of the mages to sling around spells involving things like lightning and fire. Those were bad on ships and could result in awful things like _sinking_. He entered the passageway for his cabin to find Anders storming down it, pushing past Malcolm with a snippy “excuse me,” and moving toward his own cabin. Oisín wasn’t far behind. He, at least, seemed less perturbed and more bewildered. Well, Malcolm supposed, Anders could do that to a person. Usually, though, it was when he had a sense of humor, a sense of humor that had been rather lacking, lately. 

“What was that about?” Malcolm asked Oisín. 

The man blinked as if just noticing him, and then his eyes narrowed when he recognized him. “Nothing of your concern.” There was a more than faintly accusatory look to Oisín’s eyes and Malcolm couldn’t fathom why.

He cast a confused look back to where Anders had disappeared, and then returned to Oisín. “All right. If you say so.” He wasn’t at all convinced. “Is Líadan—”

“She will be fine. She was dehydrated, but will recover. She is sleeping now.” He frowned. “You should have come to me sooner. Or that mage of yours should have helped sooner. It was dangerous to let her remain that ill for so long.”

“It was seasickness. It happens. She told me she was like that when she traveled without another mage before. Besides, I had to wait until she said it was okay to ask you so that she wouldn’t kill me when I did come to you. Seriously, have you not been hit by another mage’s lightning spell before? It _stings_ and more than just a little. I don’t recommend it.”

“She has done that to you?”

“Maker, yes. And I was trying to avoid it happening _again_. So excuse me if I waited for her say-so to ask for help.” He felt guilty already for not just risking it and asking, but Líadan was like Morrigan when it came to requesting help from others—they were loath to do it. Once they had said help, they were even more reluctant to accept it and Maker help them all if the help was forced on them. In that last situation, people were usually set on fire.

Oisín seemed to consider his words for a moment, and then he nodded. “You are excused for that, at least. Now, you must excuse me, for I have almost missed the evening meal.” But the accusation didn’t leave his eyes.

As the First walked away, Malcolm stared after him in confusion. “What was all _that_ about?” he wondered out loud. Then he slipped inside the cabin to see if Líadan had any idea why Oisín seemed to hate him more, but she was asleep like the First had said. When she finally woke up, she was reticent enough about the subject to constantly change it whenever he brought it up, so he left well enough alone. As long as no one was setting anything aboard ship on fire, he’d let things lie. They’d be making port in the morning, so it would be safer to ask then. What he hadn’t counted on, however, was the escalation of matters pertaining to Ferelden and Highever.

In was in Ostwick where they first heard about the high dragon.


	87. Chapter 87

**Chapter 87**

“It is in our power to create the world, or destroy it.”

—an excerpt from _The Qun_ , Canto 1

**Malcolm**

“A high dragon?” Malcolm asked. “Really?” _Please say no_.

The innkeeper nodded, sounding a little too cheerful when she said, “Yes, a high dragon was sighted on the northern coast of Ferelden. It’s been on a rampage through Highever, they say.”

In an effort to keep himself from panicking, Malcolm idly ran his finger through the water ring left behind on the bar from another patron’s glass. “Did they happen to mention if the dragon had a full tail?”

She reached out and wiped away the water. “Half a tail, of all the things! Probably why it’s rampaging, is my guess. Now, what is it you needed, love? Rooms for just the night?”

He didn’t answer, instead occupied with trying to figure out if it was possible to swim across the Waking Sea. Or maybe he could wish himself there and he’d be in a position to do something rather than continuing to get awful news about Ferelden, Highever, and the people he loved. Left with nothing on the outside to distract him, panic was flaring. He had no idea how he was going to sleep tonight, or any night, until things got sorted out. Even the fastest ship from Ostwick—a well-captained Rialto Clipper would work—would take over a day to reach Highever. Besides that, it was too dark for any other ships to be leaving today, even if the ship happened to be the fastest one on Thedas. No sane captain would risk their ship foundering in the darkness. Swimming came to mind again, but that plan had been ridiculous for Cumberland, much less from Ostwick. Blast it. They’d done the best they could with the ship leaving mid-morning the next day.

Líadan elbowed him in the ribs, hard. “Anytime you’d like to rejoin the world of the paying attention, that would be great.”

He jumped and rubbed at his side, remembering what the innkeeper had asked. “Sorry. Yes, rooms for the night. Three’s fine.” The Dalish elves traveling with them had elected to sleep in the forest outside the city after informing a curious Malcolm rather testily that yes, they could be on time to the harbor in the morning. In retrospect, it had been a stupid question. Still, it left them with far less people and rooms to have to secure. Anders had rushed off to find some shops for supplies when they’d left the harbor, agreeing to meet them at the inn once he was done. Malcolm was pretty sure that he’d end up bunking with Anders if he didn’t make a timely reappearance, just in case something went wrong magically, and Malcolm’s suspicions turned out to be sadly true.

“And you’ll be stabling your horses with us overnight then, I suspect?” asked the innkeeper.

“Yes, please.”

“And you don’t honestly expect that your two dogs will be staying in your rooms with you, do you? Don’t give me that look, young man, I caught sight of those huge beasts lounging outside my front door. I don’t care how clean or smart they are or what fancy kind of name they have, they’re still dogs. I do not allow dogs in my establishment. They may, however, and before you get your smallclothes in a twist, stable with your horses, assuming that your horses don’t mind the presence of the dogs so close. That will also discourage anyone from attempting something stupid like stealing those fine horses of yours.”

Damn, with how much they’d camped or stayed in Warden compounds or been in ships or with the Mahariel clan, he’d forgotten that places outside Ferelden weren’t very keen on dogs inside homes. They’d be fine in the stables, and the horses seemed to rather like the dogs, but it still bothered him that he’d have to leave them out of his and Líadan’s rooms. It meant losing a measure of protection, as well. Nothing to be done for it, though, not unless they wanted to go further into a rather large city and try to find the Warden compound. That would also mean socializing with all the other Wardens, securing rooms and beds, possibly being a lot further away from the harbor than they wanted, and just overall too much hassle for one night’s stay. “That’s fine.” He smirked. “Wouldn’t want your fine establishment smelling of wet dog.”

By the time they’d settled into rooms, bathed, and regrouped in the first floor tavern to eat, Anders still hadn’t appeared. Malcolm tried his best to ignore the niggling worry, but between his concern over Anders, the rumors of a high dragon having rampaged over his hometown, and Morrigan and her Old God child strolling right into a den of the creepiest darkspawn ever, he was now a person practically made of worry. Had he not been a Grey Warden, his appetite would have suffered, but the taint made sure that he ate like his stomach would try to eat itself if he didn’t. 

“Bet you she’s looking for me,” said Oghren. “I can’t wait to meet her again with my axe.”

Malcolm blinked and looked up. “Who?”

“The sodding _high dragon_. Everyone’s talking about the half-tailed dragon’s attack on Highever. Where you been? Lose track of that brain of yours?”

“Fell out in the ocean,” he said absently into his mug of ale, wondering if the attack on Highever had been on the castle or on the city. While the loss of life would be horrific either way, if Fergus had gotten caught in it, it would be more personal. It seemed like every time he left Highever, someone ended up dying while he was away. People needed to stop doing that or he needed to stop leaving Highever. Or, maybe, both.

Oghren grunted. “Quit your brooding. Doesn’t suit you. Fergus is fine. Take more than a dragon to take him out. And I really sodding doubt that a measly, regular high dragon could deal with Morrigan. She could probably just stare it down dead right there if it tried to attack her. Her mother was a dragon! She was raised by one! She sure as stone won’t be _intimidated_ by one.”

Malcolm sighed. “Flemeth didn’t spend all of her time in that form. Morrigan didn’t even know that Flemeth could turn into a high dragon.”

“Really?” Oghren sounded surprised and mildly disappointed that Morrigan had not been _directly_ raised by a high dragon. 

“I’m fairly certain. I mean, when I told her what happened afterward, her surprise at Flemeth’s choice of shape to shift into seemed genuine. Plus, she couldn’t go with us for the fight with Flemeth and she wanted us to win the fight, so if she’d known, she would’ve told us to give us prior warning. I think. I don’t know. Maybe Flemeth wasn’t all that motherly because she was a high dragon.”

“You know for a fact that high dragons don’t make good mothers?” asked Sigrun. 

“What? No, I don’t know that. Flemeth wasn’t a good mother, though, and she’s the only high dragon I know personally. Well, if she’s even a dragon. Or a person. I’m not sure what she is and it hurts my head to think about it.”

Oghren reached over and pushed Malcolm’s mug closer. “Drink more ale. That’ll help.” As Malcolm drank, Oghren made a big deal about looking around the room. “So where’s Sparklefingers? I haven’t seen him since he took off to go shopping like some little noble-hunter given a silver.”

“The mage should not have been allowed to wander alone,” said Sten. “It is bad enough that the Wardens allow their mages to walk free while in the company of others. But to be alone? _Saarebas_ should not be given such freedoms.”

Líadan’s scowl deepened and the grip she had on her mug grew tight. Malcolm waited to see if she’d hit Sten over the head with the mug or kick him in the shin, but she did neither, probably realizing that acting out over Sten’s words would only prove them correct. “You’re sitting right next to a mage, you know,” Malcolm said. “A mage who, by the way, is doing a remarkable job in not punching you, kicking you, or hitting you with lightning or a fireball or freezing important bits off. Just saying.”

Sten looked from Malcolm to Líadan, and then at the others. “She is different and not like the rest, such as Anders and the other _saarebas_. She is _kadan_ ; the others are not.” 

“Not much you can do to argue with that.” Oghren raised his mug toward Líadan in salute. “See? You’re different.”

“Just what I always wanted.” Líadan gave a slight roll of her eyes and slouched in her chair. “To be unlike everyone else.”

“You’re the only person I’ve heard who doesn’t want to be their own sodding precious little flower.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow at Oghren. “Really? You’re saying you want to be your own precious little flower? That’s so cute. Is that why you braid your beard? I’d always wondered.”

“You’re just jealous that you can’t grow a proper beard.”

Sigrun sat up straight in her chair, her eyes glinting with humor and mischief.

“I think we’ve had this argument before.” Malcolm looked straight at Sigrun and shook his head. “And I don’t think it needs to be had again.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Oghren. “I don’t think we’ve ever discussed the proper care and growing of beards. Considering your serious lack of beard, and your brother’s lack of kingly beard, it’s a subject that merits discussion. The pike-twirler, instead of settling for that scrap of scruff that’s an insult to beards and kingships everywhere, should really look into growing something proper like any dwarven king would have. Bhelen might be more slippery than a nug running from a bronto in the mud, but he’s got a right, good beard. Pike-twirler needs something like that for his image.” When Malcolm started laughing, Oghren nodded, and then turned to Sten. “Can qunari grow beards?”

Sten stood and stepped away from the table. “If it is the will of the qun.”

As Oghren watched Sten walk up the stairs, he said, “Guess he’s jealous.”

The innkeeper brought more food, and the small group of Wardens continued to wait for Anders. As the night drew longer, Malcolm became restless and worried that something had happened to him. But, Anders was a Grey Warden and a good mage. He had the ability to take care of himself should any thieves try to waylay him. There could be templars about who didn’t respect the freedom of Warden mages, but there would still be a loud fight, and word would have gotten back to them by now. 

They had heard nothing. Oghren stumbled upstairs before the ale he consumed made him pass out on the tavern’s floor while Malcolm got to his feet. “I’m going to go have a look around,” he said to Sigrun and Líadan. 

Both of them immediately stood. “And, obviously, we’re going with you,” said Líadan. 

He smiled. “That was actually my next question. You know, to see if you two wanted to go with me, since wandering off by myself is stupid.”

Líadan squeezed his arm as she moved to stand next to him. “Glad you’re finally learning.”

Outside, they found the shops and stalls in the market district of Ostwick closed, as well as any shops around the port. The only places left open were taverns and inns, and the trio ducked from place to place to see if they could catch a glimpse of Anders. No one saw him. They consulted a city guard, but there had been no reports of fights or wandering groups of templars seeking out mages, much less catching one. The guard promised to alert his follow guardsmen to Anders’ presence so he’d either be brought back to the tavern, or if he wasn’t found before the ship left in the morning, brought to the nearest Grey Warden compound, and adamantly _not_ handed over to the Chantry. It was past midnight by the time they gave up their own search, dejectedly walking back to the inn and retiring to their beds. 

Malcolm spent most of the night awake, staring either up at the ceiling or out the window at the harbor, waiting for Anders to appear and worrying about Highever and Morrigan and Fergus and everything, it seemed. He didn’t fall asleep until the first pink streaks of dawn painted the horizon. Two hours later, banging on the door and shouting from Oghren woke him up. Already feeling strange at so little sleep, at the empty place next to him on the bed, he blearily looked over at the spare bed and saw that it hadn’t been slept in. He sighed, and then shouted back to Oghren that he was up.

“Hey, that’s what the elf needs to hear, not me,” Oghren said through the door. 

When Malcolm appeared downstairs in the tavern, clean and carrying his pack and weapons, he found Líadan glowering at Oghren and looking like she hadn’t slept much better than he had. At least they could sleep on the ship, as long as Oisín or hopefully Anders helped out with their fantastic no-seasickness spell. Otherwise, Líadan would be awake spending quality time with the railing on the upper deck or a bucket in a cabin, and he’d feel too guilty over not being sick to fall asleep. 

Sigrun kept casting glances at the tavern’s door. Sten grunted some sort of morning greeting when Malcolm approached, and then said, “The mage has not been found.”

“We checked with the guard this morning,” said Sigrun. “The two of us. Qunari are awfully useful for intimidating people. I have to take him around with me more often! Anyway, there’s no templars trawling around here, and the guards report no incidents with bandits overnight, even unofficially.”

Malcolm rubbed at his eyes and gratefully accepted the tea one of the waitresses handed him. “You could’ve woken me up, you know. I could’ve gone with you, maybe thrown around that whole prince thing. Also tends to get people moving. I didn’t use it last night, but Anders does need to be found, so it’s worth it to find him.”

“You needed the sleep,” said Líadan. “I heard you pacing almost all night.”

He glanced down at the food the waitress had brought, coming up with a plan of attack, and then looked over at Líadan. “Means you didn’t sleep, either, if you could hear me that much.”

“Never said I did.”

Then he noticed that she’d hardly touched her food, and he frowned. “Not eating?”

She sighed and pushed the food away. “We haven’t found Anders and we’re going on a Creators-forsaken _ship_. I’m trying to avoid seeing it again.”

“Just because you haven’t eaten doesn’t mean you won’t puke.” Oghren pointed at her food. “I’ll eat it, though, if you aren’t. Shame to waste it.”

“Go ahead.” She rolled her eyes as he stood, pulled the food over, and then gleefully dug in. 

“There’s always Oisín,” said Malcolm. “But it might be better if you asked him, rather than me, because he’s been really short with me lately, for some reason.”

One corner of her mouth turned slightly upward. “He is Dalish. They do that, I’ve heard.” She stood up. “I’ll ask him if it gets bad enough. What I’d rather do is find Anders, mostly so I can learn the spell from him, and then possibly kill him.”

“No way. I’m first in line, elf,” said Oghren.

“I gave you my food. That means I jump your place in line.” She stole a biscuit from his plate, one that’d been her plate in the first place, and started for the door. “I’ll go make sure the horses and tack are ready. I’m sure the dogs are overly excited to get out of this place.” 

After finishing their food and settling the debt with the innkeeper, the rest of the Wardens followed. Malcolm spoke with another guard, but no one had yet reported or witnessed a man of Anders’ description. Then they returned to the harbor, meeting up with Oisín and his hunters and their horses, and explaining the situation. Crew members from the ship took their horses down to the hold, and then it was time for the rest of them to board, even though Anders had yet to show.

It wasn’t until the ship was sailing with the tide out of Ostwick’s harbor that Malcolm fully understood that Anders was gone. 

Oisín, at least, had been kind enough to cast the healing spell on Líadan without her explicitly requesting it. One look at her and he’d scowled, frowned at Malcolm, and then waved a hand over her while muttering something under his breath. Malcolm hadn’t been able to figure out if it was a spell or swearing, and figured it was probably in his best interests to just let it go. Still, he stood at the stern of the ship with Líadan beside him, both to watch the harbor retreat into the horizon behind them, and because it would be the best part of the ship for her in case her stomach rebelled against Oisín’s help. “So how mean were you to Anders that he wouldn’t even come back?”

“I wasn’t that mean to him.” She kicked at the base of the wooden railing with her boot. “I think it was the other... thing with him that made him leave, maybe. If he started to suspect that we thought he was compromised or something, I could see him leaving before action was taken.”

“It was a faint suspicion because he was acting oddly, is all. I don’t have any proof. It isn’t like he was summoning demons or raising the dead or anything that makes it obvious that a demon has taken up residence in a mage on this side of the Fade. He didn’t need to run.”

“No, he didn’t, but I can understand why he did. I mean, if that’s what happened. We can’t be sure, not until he’s found. I just wish he’d said good bye.”

Within two days, their ship encountered the first of the fleets rumored to be on the Waking Sea. Before Malcolm could even ask about the origin of the large ships, Sten explained that they were qunari. “Will they attack us?” the captain asked.

“No,” said Sten. “Not unless the qun requires it. Rarely does the qun require an attack on a merchant or passenger vessel such as this. Your ship will be able to travel unimpeded through the qunari fleet.” He pointed to one of the largest of the ships. “That is the Arishok’s vessel. You should signal him with your intent to dock at the harbor and they will not bother with harrying you. The Tevinter ships beyond, however, I make no promises for.”

The captain ordered the signals given, and after a short exchange between the captain and the Arishok’s flagship, their ship was allowed an eerily quiet passage through the qunari fleet. The fleet turned out to be surprisingly smaller than they’d thought at first glance, which supported the Arishok’s statement that the qunari’s task was not invasion of Ferelden, or even to destroy the Tevinter fleet, but merely to retrieve something from Orlais. The presence of the Tevinter fleet had come as a surprise. The captain of the merchant ship seemed no less surprised to find that the qunari had no martial intentions, especially given the weapons they seemed to possess on all their ships—cannons, Sten called them.

“Are they magic?” asked the captain.

“No. They are made to work by a substance we call _gaatlok_. More you do not need to know.”

By the time they reached the end of the qunari fleet, they could see the beginnings of the Tevinter fleet and the port of Highever. Like he had done with the qunari, the ship’s captain exchanged signals with the flagship and obtained permission to pass through. “Not a blockade yet,” the captain said to the observers nearby. “I’m not going to stay in port long, though. Not with the qunari getting so close and the _size_ of that Tevinter fleet. The sailor I’ve got up in the crow’s nest just reported that he can’t see the end of the fleet. That’s bad, in case any of you were wondering.”

From where Malcolm stood, he could see that the entire city of Highever looked to be intact, though some of the hills surrounding it seemed to be on the burned side. He wouldn’t be able to see Highever Castle until they were out of the city and on one of the hills, and his movements on the deck were filled with impatience. He couldn’t be completely relieved until he knew that Fergus was alive. He was happy to see that the city seemed unharmed, but the population’s safety wasn’t as personal as his brother’s. When the Grey Wardens disembarked, Malcolm rushed them along through the pier, leading the horses by hand. They’d already been saddled, made to be ready to ride as soon as they were outside the city and had the proper freedom to move. Sailors and longshoremen called greetings to the Wardens, but Malcolm did no more than return waves and hurry onward. Then they were finally past the city gate and able to ride, quickly reaching the crest of the first hill. Malcolm halted and stared.

Half of the castle was gone.

Not gone entirely, no. There were ruins, the remnants of stone walls left scattered on the ground, edges still left standing blackened with soot. If anyone, if Fergus had been in any of those broken sections, Malcolm couldn’t see how they could have survived. No, he wasn’t dead. He refused to believe it—the castle still flew Cousland colors. It was a large enough keep that if Fergus had been in another section, he would be fine. He urged his horse into a gallop to find out. Líadan muttered a curse in Elvish and followed, the other Wardens and Oisín and the Dalish hunters not far behind.

The outer wall of the keep seemed fully intact, though Malcolm couldn’t see the rear of the castle to be completely certain. However, it seemed that the high dragon—if that’s what had caused the damage—had flown over the outer walls to wreak havoc inside. Around the castle, Malcolm could see large patrols of soldiers, some bearing the livery of the Royal Guard, others of Highever, and a few others of various banns from the teyrnir. Malcolm wondered if it had to do with the fleets off the coast or if people were mustering to fight a still at-large high dragon. The Warden and Dalish party was briefly halted at the barbican before being waved through. Once inside, Malcolm dismounted and distractedly handed the reins over to a waiting servant, his eyes having caught sight of Fergus walking out of the main doors of the keep. 

Malcolm grinned. “Good to see the dragon didn’t eat you, Fergus.”

The grin was returned. “She’d likely spit me out if he tried to bite me,” said Fergus. “However, the high dragon in question is dead and no longer a threat, thank the Maker. The castle obviously couldn’t have withstood another attack.” The two of them clasped forearms, and then Fergus pulled his brother into a hug. “Good to see you. We were wondering when you’d come home.”

Malcolm pulled back. “Were you?”

Fergus nodded. “Yes. There’s a lot going on, and your presence was a little bit predicted. Long story. Come with me and I’ll tell you.” Then the teyrn was greeting the others he knew: Líadan with a warm hug and the others with handshakes or, in Sten’s case, a nod. He looked over at Oisín and his hunters, who stood separate from the Wardens and seemed more than vaguely uncomfortable. “I’m Teyrn Fergus Cousland of Highever.”

“Oisín, First to Keeper Lanaya of the Ra’asiel clan,” said Oisín, briefly inclining his head. “These are my hunters. We traveled from the White Spire with these Grey Wardens after we met them there. We are on our way to rejoining our clan here in Ferelden.”

“Well met, Oisín. You and your party are welcome to stay here until you need to leave to rejoin your clan.” After Oisín nodded, Fergus looked around both groups and said, “Servants will show to you some quarters. It isn’t quite what it used to be, but livable.”

“Not as much defendable,” said Sten. 

The teyrn sighed. “No, it isn’t. There will be a meeting soon in the main hall. If you don’t know the way, someone will bring you there shortly after showing you to a room.” The other Wardens followed a couple servants inside the keep, but Líadan remained beside Malcolm, and the dogs trotted behind them. 

“So what’s going on?” asked Malcolm. “I assume you know about the fleets out there.”

“Yes, we do. Got warning from Vigil’s Keep before we saw them here. Odd to realize that the Vigil’s old function of warning us about Tevinter fleets is still applicable today. But the fleets, both qunari and Tevinter, aren’t the worse of our problems.” He tilted his head to the side. “Or, rather, the most demanding problem at the moment. That’s the legion of templars that are marching on Highever, right now, as we speak.”

Malcolm’s fingers went cold. “Seriously? A legion? Are they—”

“They’re looking for Morrigan, yes. Are you here because your search for her brought you here or because you couldn’t find a trail and came home?”

“She’s in Drake’s Fall. Or should be, anyway. That’s what Oisín told us. They’ll help us get there, too, if we can—where are the templars now?”

“Last scouting party saw them on the North Road. If you’re going to Drake’s Fall, you’ll be better off taking the coastal route. You should be able to avoid the templars that way. They seem to think Morrigan is here, for some strange reason.”

Malcolm frowned, recalling the state of the keep. “Is the outer defense wall intact?”

“Yes. Maker willing, that will be enough while we keep the templars distracted. If not...” Fergus trailed off and shrugged. “We’ll figure it out. Alistair is here, too, but he’s riding with a patrol at the moment. He wanted to get a glimpse of the templars himself, though I’m sure they’ll be at our doorstep by tomorrow morning. I’m sure we’ll be able to see their campfires tonight from the ramparts. They’re not bothering to hide their approach at all. Typical Orlesian arrogance.”

“Is Alistair mustering the army? I can’t imagine him siding with the Chantry on this matter, especially if the Chantry is invading Ferelden. My guess is that the templars aren’t neutral Nevarran templars or from the Free Marches.”

“The army, such as it is, was beginning to muster as soon as people saw the templars—who are indeed Orlesian—forming at the border. Teyrna Cauthrien was supposed to be leading the army, but she and her men never appeared at Gherlen’s Pass, so we aren’t sure what’s going on. Queen Anora is still waiting there, last I heard. She’s the one who sent warning to Alistair about the templars marching, though, so I don’t think Anora is in on any takeover plans.”

“Anora would never side with Orlais, not unless she was possessed or something.”

Fergus nodded. “I agree. But it doesn’t stop people from speculating, anyway. Hildur is here, too, with quite a few Wardens. They’re taking exception to Chantry involvement, mostly because she considers Morrigan to be Grey Warden business.” He paused as they reached the doors to the main hall. “Alistair said that Morrigan intends on using some kind of Dalish relic up in Drake’s Fall to escape Thedas entirely. Do you think it’s true? Do you think it can be done?”

“Yes,” said Líadan. “It’s called an eluvian. The Ra’asiel—that’s the clan Morrigan has been traveling with—found one at the White Spire, but their research was stopped when the volcano erupted. Oisín had gone back there with his hunters to see if they could recover anything, but all the relics there were lost.” Her eyes looked pained at the news, expressing grief at the loss of more of her people’s history. “But they managed to learn a great deal before the disaster, and now Morrigan and the Ra’asiel should be able to apply this knowledge to the eluvian at Drake’s Fall. Basically, when worked correctly, it’s a portal that connects to a place that’s separate from Thedas and from the Fade and was made permanently separate from everything before the Blights began. _Asha’belannar_ can’t get there and neither can anyone else, except through those portals. Right now, the eluvian in Drake’s Fall could very well be the last working one.”

“So that’s what she’s doing up there right now? Making it work?”

Líadan nodded. “That’s what we all think. It makes the most sense out of anything. Not sure how you could prove to the templars that she isn’t here, though. I don’t imagine you’d let them search your castle, no less than the Dalish would allow them to search a camp. They’ve no right to invade your home, no matter who they think you might be harboring.”

Fergus grinned. “I knew I liked you for a reason.” He glanced between the two of them. “Are you going straight to Drake’s Fall or will you be resting here for the night? I know it’s midafternoon now, so you could get some travel time in before full dark. But as long as the coastal route remains clear, you don’t have to leave immediately. Alistair said that Morrigan was waiting for you, Malcolm. That she knows you’re coming.”

“That’s... okay, that’s really creepy. Not farfetched, I know, considering the ring and the powers we think it has but still. Creepy.” He did wonder if she could’ve sent a message or something, a little notification that would’ve saved them the entire trip to and from Arlathan Forest. As interesting as it was, they could’ve done without that. They might have even been able to use the extra time to find and speak with Merrill, or catch up to Morrigan sooner. “We’ll stay the night. We need to resupply and sleeping in a bed _and_ being able to have the dogs around at the same time would be nice.” He glanced over at Revas, who was running in excited circles around the small group. “Well, except maybe for the puppy.”

Fergus rubbed the young mabari behind the ears. “She isn’t really a pup any longer, at least not size-wise.” Revas barked appreciatively, and after a moment, Fergus straightened. “I know you came in with a bunch of extra Dalish, but aren’t you missing someone? Where’s Anders?” His eyes widened. “He isn’t dead, is—”

“I hope he isn’t,” said Malcolm. “He never reported in after he went to pick up some supplies in Ostwick. I’ll have to let Hildur know. She can send out more messages and hopefully the Wardens can pick him up. His Warden status should protect him from the Chantry even though he’s a mage, but he has to stay _with_ the Wardens for that protection to work.”

“You think he ran?”

Malcolm shrugged. “Maybe. It was kind of his thing before I conscripted him, so maybe he went back to it for some reason. He never mentioned anything to me or anyone that I know of about getting antsy. I suspect something happened on Sundermount, but we might never know unless we find him.”

“Well, if you need a healer at any point, Wynne has been traveling with Alistair, so she’s here at the castle right now.”

Malcolm glanced over at Líadan, wondering if Oisín’s healing spell had worn off. She rolled her eyes. “I’m fine,” she said. “Not on a ship, so I’m not seasick. It’s how it usually works. I wasn’t sick in Ostwick, either. In fact, I’m _starving_. Ship food is awful.”

“It’s always so nice to have Grey Wardens about, eating you out of house and home,” said Fergus. “Come on, let’s drop by the kitchens. The dragon didn’t harm them, either.”

Alistair arrived just before the evening meal, dirty from the road and as ravenous as the other Wardens. Malcolm was relieved to see him, as well, and got as much information as he could from him. It wasn’t difficult since Alistair was a ready talker, but there were a few moments when it seemed like he was choosing answers and editing some things out. He decided it was because they were eating in the main hall and surrounded not just by Wardens, but by various banns and soldiers. Refugees were being taken care of down in the Highever city’s chantry, given both food and housing until matters could be settled in the teyrnir. It wouldn’t do anyone any good to send people back to rebuild homes and replant fields if the templars forced a martial confrontation and battle undid the restoration work people put in on their homes and livelihoods. 

Later that evening, Líadan ducked out of the room to go speak with Wynne, presumably about a couple spells she’d picked up from Marethari that she wanted to share, and Malcolm took the chance to go get the bow from Master Ilen out of her sight. He picked up the finely tooled, hard leather case and headed for what a servant informed him was his brother’s new study. Case tucked under his arm, he knocked once and entered when Fergus muttered permission. 

“What can I do for you?” Fergus asked as Malcolm walked in.

He held out the case. “I need you to store this somewhere safe for me.”

Fergus raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“It’s a Dalish bow. Here.” Malcolm set the case on the desk, one smaller than the one that had been in Bryce’s study, and popped it open. 

Fergus let out a low whistle of appreciation. “That’s amazing work. That Ilen’s doing? I think I recognize his mark from some of the other things he did for the army back during the Blight. That man is a master artisan, I tell you.” He traced over one of the bow’s smooth limbs. “Tremendous. What are _you_ doing with it, little brother? You can’t hit anything with arrows. Well, maybe you could if you threw them with your hand, but with a bow? Hopeless.”

Malcolm closed the case, and then sat heavily in the chair across from Fergus’ desk. “Honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing with it. Master Ilen gave it to me.”

“Why would a Dalish master craftsman, one whom I know _knows_ about your lack of skill with a bow, give you a bow of his own free will?”

“For Líadan. I’d mentioned it to him that I’d thought about getting her one since I know that she was once a very fine archer. She gave it up because of the templars, but she’s worked through much of that, and it’s a connection to her mother. Ilen’s known her since she was born, so he would’ve told me if it wasn’t a wanted gift. Anyway, he got all excited—well, excited for Ilen, anyway—and agreed to make one.” Malcolm motioned toward the case. “There it is. He even had me help with one of the last parts, with tying on the grip. I think he had an ulterior motive for it.”

Fergus’ brow furrowed and he sat back in his chair. “What would that be?”

“He was trying to tell me something, I think. Maybe give permission? I’m not sure, but—”

The study door swung open and Alistair strode through, calling out a greeting and being generally noisy, stopping Malcolm short. Which, he realized, might’ve been a good thing. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking those things that Ilen had less-than-subtly trying to bring up and put in motion. He’d deal with it after he’d spoken with, _seen_ , Morrigan again. It wouldn’t be fair, otherwise. Maybe. This was all very difficult and why was Alistair being so _loud_? 

“We’ll be leaving in the morning, I assume?” Alistair asked Malcolm. “Can you manage first light or are you going to need me to send a pack of puppies in there to wake you up?”

“You know, waking up to a puppy in your face isn’t the most horrible way to start off a day,” said Malcolm. “Unless said puppy is trying to bite off your nose, like Revas tried more than once.”

“Bias against the Theirin nose,” said Alistair. “It’s everywhere. Horrific, really. Adalla is the same way. I think it’s Loghain’s influence from across the Fade, but Anora tells me that I’m ridiculous to think so. Of course, she tells me that a lot.”

Fergus snorted. “I can’t imagine why. Totally out of curiosity, has she spoken to you about your appalling lack of manners, your Majesty?”

“Come on, I told you not to bother with that ‘your Majesty’ stuff when it’s just us.”

“It’s called irony, Alistair,” said Malcolm. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept after traveling with Morrigan for as long as we did, and for having traveled with her recently.”

The King nodded. “You know, motherhood hasn’t softened her at _all_. If anything, I think it’s made her sharper and more wicked and pointed with her jabs.”

“Or you’ve just become that much more annoying,” said Fergus. “That’s always a possibility. Wynne did mention that you acted very much like Alistair with Morrigan around, and much less like the King.”

Alistair shrugged. “Can’t be helped. She brings the best out in me.” He faced his younger brother. “So what was it you were chatting about before I busted in here? I thought you’d keep going, but you shut right up, to my great disappointment.”

“Nothing,” said Malcolm. “It can wait until after we return from Drake’s Fall.”

Fergus didn’t look convinced, but didn’t press. “All right.” He pulled the case off the desk and locked it in an armoire. “But based on what you _did_ say, we’ll be chatting about this when you return, whether you like it or not. Obviously, it’s bothering you, or you wouldn’t have mentioned it at all.” Then he waved the two Theirins out of the room. “It’s late. I’m going to bed, and the both of you should, too. Patrols are set for tomorrow, scouts are out overnight, and defense is set for the castle. Nothing more we can do, and, honestly, Alistair will be safest going up to Drake’s Fall rather than staying here. It will also give us more time to distract the templars and hope Cauthrien shows up.”

“There have been rumors of Chasind Wilders causing problems in the south,” said Alistair, heading for the door. “That could be what’s delaying her. I just hope that it’s something real and not something related to her acting far too much like her mentor.”

Malcolm stood. “Cauthrien is far too much a patriot to risk Ferelden falling to Orlais just to make a King she might not like look weak. Plus, she seems to like you, actually. Or respect you in that strange, Cauthrien way. She’ll show.” He wished he felt as confident as he sounded saying that, but it was the most he could do. He hoped Cauthrien and her troops were okay and would _get here_ before it was too late, if it wasn’t too late already.

He woke before full dawn, Líadan with him, bathing and dressing quickly and quietly, already mentally preparing for the journey ahead. It felt strange to know that within days, he would be coming face-to-face with a person he never thought he’d see again, a person he’d once desperately wanted to see again, and now he wasn’t so sure. He went for a quick walk on the battlements to clear his mind and check the safety of the coastal route that was visible from the higher reaches of Highever castle. Despite her objections to heights, Líadan followed, her face tucked into her cloak’s hood at the chilly wind. Summer seemed forgotten in the darkness before dawn. Up on the battlements, they could both see dust already rising up on the road, tossed up by the stomping boots of hundreds of marching templars as they bore down on Highever. 

“Holy Maker,” said Malcolm.

Líadan smirked. “That’s probably what they’re thinking, yes.” She stared out at them for a moment. “But we won’t let them get Morrigan. Oisín told me that the Ra’asiel will even fight the templars to keep her safe, if necessary. They would even fight _Asha’belannar_.”

“Given the choice, I’d rather face templars.”

She nodded. “As would I. We should probably get going, then. If we move fast enough, we might not have to fight anyone, and Morrigan can escape safely.” She put a hand on his arm and tugged him toward the stairs. “Come on. You know as well as I do that Morrigan doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Though they remained out of the sight of the templar army as they traveled east along the coastal route, they were faced with the stark reality of the fleets waiting off the northern coast. The qunari ships had gotten much closer, now almost mixing with the Tevinter ships, all dangerously close to the Highever port, and Malcolm assumed they were close to the other northern Fereldan ports, as well. The Waking Sea, from all they could see, was thick with potential enemy ships. Since not one had yet made a threatened move, the qunari hadn’t fired a shot from one of their cannons, the Tevinters hadn’t used any of their magic, and not a single port had been blockaded, it was hard to tell what their intent was. Indeed, not even a single message had been conveyed to Ferelden, as if they didn’t exist at all, even with all these ships lurking about in the small country’s assumed waters. Alistair grumbled about it every time he glanced over at the ocean, and Malcolm couldn’t help but agree. 

Before they found a place to pitch camp for the night, they ran across another party of Dalish elves. They immediately recognized Malcolm, arrows nocked and aimed straight at him as he called out a greeting. 

“Oh, they know you, do they?” asked Alistair. 

“I really didn’t mean it,” said Malcolm, and then pitched his voice a bit louder. “Seriously, I didn’t mean it before with the threatening. I just suck at spoken Elvish and I should really stop trying to speak it, pretty much ever. So, again, I’m sorry, and if you could please lower your weapons, that would be fantastic. Really.”

“ _Aneth ara_ , Ariane,” Oisín called, moving out from the rear of the pack, along with his hunters. “Did you find anything on your travels?”

“I was kidding before,” Alistair said quietly to Malcolm. “I didn’t think you had _actually_ met them.”

“We did,” said Líadan. “And he threatened them. Remember that if you ever think about making him some sort of ambassador.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “We met with them, entirely by accident, while we were in the Korcari Wilds. They were on some sort of assignment for their keeper, looking for evidence of Flemeth being alive. They must be from the same clan as Oisín, so I think we just gained a few more people to travel with us.”

“Very capable people,” said Líadan. “I’d be grateful for them.”

“I _am_ grateful for them.” Malcolm kept his eyes on Ariane’s bow, even though she and her hunters had lowered them once Oisín had spoken. “I’m just way more grateful when they aren’t aiming those things at me.”

As he’d predicted, the additional Dalish party joined them, bolstering their numbers. Alistair had forsaken the use of Royal Guards because of the amount of Wardens and Dalish who were accompanying the party to Drake’s Fall. The Guard would be put to better use helping with the defense of Highever, if it came to that. The skill of the Dalish hunters, however, could not be ignored, and more of their kind was always welcome. After camping for a night, the party continued upward into the mountains, cold tugging at them the entire way, summer completely forgotten in the higher elevations. Before they passed into the peaks, Malcolm caught sight of another storm forming over the Waking Sea. Good. Perhaps that would break up the fleets off the coast and give Ferelden some breathing room. They could certainly use it.

Two days passed in eager climbing before they found themselves outside the cirque where they’d last found the entrance. Líadan didn’t seem thrilled about going back into the tunnels, but she made no verbal objections, instead merely casting wary glances through the pass into the clearing. Oghren stood nearby as the Dalish scouted for the varterral, stomping his feet and clapping his hands together in a show of being cold. 

When Malcolm glanced over at him, Oghren asked, “What? It’s colder than a witch’s tit up here.”

“You know, unless it’s winter and she hasn’t any clothes and really, really sucks at fire spells, that’s not nearly as cold as you seem to think it is,” said Malcolm. 

Líadan snorted.

Oghren chuckled. “Well, yeah, I suppose you _would_ know that. Always wondered how she kept herself warm in the winter, wearing as little as she did.”

“Magic,” said Líadan. Malcolm gave her a shocked look, having decided just before that talking about how cold or not cold Morrigan’s upper body got was just _not_ a subject he wanted to discuss with anyone, especially Líadan. She grinned at him. “What? I was curious, so I asked. Couldn’t manage to learn the spell myself, sadly.”

He kept forgetting how close of friends Líadan and Morrigan had been before. Well, it would do very well to remind him now, since very soon they would be seeing her again. It didn’t seem believable, not in the least, but that was the reality. The scouts returned and said they couldn’t see the varterral, but that it had to still be up there, and it wouldn’t be a good idea risking non-elves and non-elf-blooded in trying to pass it. Hildur commanded that the majority of the Grey Wardens remain camped outside the clearing with her, ready for whatever came out of the Deep Roads entrance. Then she asked Alistair, Malcolm, and Líadan to accompany the other Ra’asiel Dalish inside. 

“Can the dogs come?” Malcolm asked Oisín.

He considered the two mabari for a moment, and then nodded. “Beasts should be fine. I see no reason why the varterral would not let them pass.”

Then after telling Hildur that yes, he would be giving a full report on return, and yes, he would be bringing Nathaniel back—though he couldn’t imagine why Nathaniel had volunteered to go in the first place—Malcolm followed Oisín and Ariane and their hunters into the heart of the mountains. 

As he’d suspected, they took a right at the first intersection, but it took longer than he’d thought to reach their destination. Hours of tramping through caverns and tunnels, enough time that Líadan eventually started to relax instead of warily watching the walls and ceiling, as if expecting them to collapse around her. They knew they were close when they were stopped by a couple hunters who then recognized Ariane and their First and the other hunters. They also seemed to have more than a passing familiarity with Alistair, knowledge of who Líadan was, and kept giving Malcolm curious looks, though he couldn’t imagine why. Then they were brought through another opening, and then an actual doorway and into a monstrous chamber, one so large that Malcolm could barely see the top or the end. 

“There’s the eluvian,” said Oisín, pointing at a fully-intact relic positioned at the end of a promontory. 

Malcolm took a step forward, and then stopped. There, crouched and studying the script on the frame of the eluvian, was Morrigan.


	88. Chapter 88

**Chapter 88**

“In the time of Arlathan, there was a house called the Ethliel. They were a house that practiced absolute peace. They fought no battles, no wars. They were revered as mediators, as scholars, philosophers, and powerful mages. They were the only house who worshipped Valoel, the ancient god of peace, exclusively. Their temples were for only for her and her cause, for they were all of one belief with their god. One day, Valoel was betrayed by Samandirel, the god of imagination, and now a Forgotten One. Much of the story has been lost and we do not know exactly what happened between them. What knowledge remains to us is that her children were taken away from her, and for this, she swore vengeance against Samandirel. She turned on her people, wiping out entire villages, ignoring their please for mercy. The remaining Ethliel scattered to escape her wrath, turning away from her as she had turn away from peace with her vengeful sorrow. The other gods went to banish Valoel to the realm of the Forgotten Ones to stop her slaughter, but she had already disappeared. Trapped in her grief and path of vengeance, she is forever as imprisoned as her children. Before her last follower abandoned her, he turned and spoke.

‘The end of vengeance becomes freedom,’ the man told her.

And then she killed him for his wisdom.”

—from _The Tale of Valoel’s Fall_ as told by Gisharel of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish

**Malcolm**

He stared, suddenly unable to decide what to do. It wasn’t like he’d just spent months searching for her, and now that he’d found her, he realized he hadn’t given much thought to what he’d do when he _did_ find her. Mostly because he hadn’t much allowed himself the hope of actually seeing her again. Hands nudged him forward, and he heard Líadan say, “Go talk to her. Seriously, Gunnar is already running down there and you’d better follow him. If she sees him and finds out that you’ve become paralyzed with fear up here and all tongue-tied, she’ll just get mad.”

Realizing that Líadan was right and that Gunnar was practically bolting for Morrigan, he stumbled forward at first, and then seemed to regain the ability to walk as he continued onward. He could do this. He could face Morrigan and speak with her like an adult and not freak out at all. Of course, he couldn’t think of a thing to _say_ , much less what to say first, and he just kind of stared as Morrigan turned at hearing Gunnar’s bark and bent to rub the mabari behind the ears. Then she caught sight of Malcolm and slowly rose to her full height. Gunnar run in a tight circle, and then trotted happily off, as if to telling them, _“My work here is done, you silly humans.”_

Malcolm wished Gunnar had at least provided him with what to _say_ instead of leaving him staring like a complete idiot. He should have planned this out, but he’d never really expected this to happen and it felt like some very strange dream. Then he found himself saying to her, “I thought you would have left already. I never really expected to find you, or even to see you again. Ever.” Because, really, he apparently wasn’t capable of saying, _“Hello, nice to see you,”_ and having a normal conversation.

Because this was totally the ‘normal conversation’ kind of situation.

Morrigan folded her arms over her chest—which, Malcolm noted, had gotten larger, as Alistair had warned him when he told him to make sure not to stare—and met his gaze. “I remained because there is something I must tell you. I also sensed your approach.” She nodded her head toward him. “You kept the ring.”

He noticed that it wasn’t a question, and realized the ring still had power, even though it wasn’t on his finger. “I didn’t... I couldn’t just throw it away, throw away everything like you did.” And the old vitriol leapt up and out and he wanted to snatch it back and he winced. “No—no, that was unfair. It wasn’t what you did. You did what you had to do. And I kept the ring because I didn’t want to forget what good moments we had together.” He didn’t mention that he had almost thrown the ring away, down into the griffon aeries at Weisshaupt, and that Líadan had stopped him and made him keep it. 

Morrigan gave him a small, rueful smile. “And you once argued with me that love is not a weakness. I will never understand you.” She paused, her head tilting a little to the side. “And you will never understand me.”

He felt the familiar frustration, that if she just gave him a chance, he could try to understand, but she always assumed he wouldn’t, and never let him prove otherwise. He held in a sigh. “I won’t understand unless you help me to.”

She gave the eluvian another glance, and then turned to him again. “I barely know where to begin explaining. However... there is someone you must meet, first.”

Admittedly, he was curious about the Old God child, and wanted to see him. He also hadn’t forgotten about Ariane mentioning in the Wilds that there were _children_ , which meant more than one, and that there was perhaps a child of Zevran’s that hadn’t the soul of an Old God.  “All right,” he said, and then followed her to a small camp located at the periphery of the larger Dalish camp. A Dalish woman with a frightening hairstyle sat glowering near the fire, and another, less-imposing Dalish woman sat nearby, a babe in her arms that Morrigan asked for once she was close. 

Then she turned and showed him the child as the elves disappeared into nearby tents, giving them the illusion of privacy. “This is Cianán. He bears the soul of the Old God. I wanted you to see him so that you would know he is not the evil you assumed him to be. He is an innocent. He knows nothing of the destiny that lies before him.”

Malcolm stared at the infant who looked remarkably like Morrigan. He remembered that Oren hadn’t much looked like anyone when he was a baby. He’d been adorable, sure, but had only vaguely looked related to Fergus and Oriana, not really resembling a Cousland until after he was a year old. But with Cianán, the resemblance between him and his mother was rather striking. Malcolm supposed it had to do with the fact that Cianán’s father was an elf, and therefore most of the influence would come from Morrigan and her human background. Malcolm also really hadn’t thought that the Old God child would look so entirely nonthreatening. “He looks... well, he looks like a baby.” He carefully made sure _not_ to say, _“And not a monster,”_ because she would, rightfully, probably kill him for that.

Morrigan arched an eyebrow. “What did you think he would look like? A wolf cub? A fledgling bird? A demon? A darkspawn, perhaps?” She sounded more than vaguely offended, and the tiniest bit amused. 

He hoped, anyway, for his own sake, that the amusement would take precedence. “I was thinking more a dragonling, actually.”

She actually took a step back to look at him in shock. “You had actually thought I would give birth to a _dragon_? I am human, in case it escaped your notice.”

“No, no, it didn’t escape my notice. Not in the least. But, I mean, to be fair, one, your mother? Totally can turn into a dragon. Might actually even be a dragon. Two, _you_ can get kind of dragon- _like_ , particularly when you’re mad. Like right now.”

“You—” She halted before she started a tirade, losing her anger and replacing it with an almost resigned amusement. “You have not changed at all.”

“And neither have you.” Yet, despite what they said, he knew that they had both changed a great deal. She was a mother, of all things, and from how her eyes softened when she occasionally glanced down at the child, she was a mother in far more than name, unlike Flemeth had been. He’d seen Oriana’s face change like that whenever she looked at Oren. It was a look that couldn’t be faked, a mother taken with her own child. On Morrigan, it was a strange, almost disconcerting sight. He cleared his throat. “So, what’s your plan? Alistair was pretty vague. Well, you’d say ignorant, and... you’d probably be right. So, now that you know the only explanation I’ve gotten is from my brother, mind telling me what you plan on doing?”

She looked up at him, her eyes hardening into determination. “My plan is to leave and prepare the child for what is to come. Such preparation requires time. And power. I must have both if I am to be successful. More than this, I dare not say. Even to you.”

He knew she had a right to tell him nothing more of her plans, especially given that the child wasn’t even his. Yet, he’d thought that maybe she could trust him after all this, after searching for and finally finding her and _not_ bringing the templars along. “Why not?” It couldn’t hurt to ask. She couldn’t kill him while holding a baby, after all, could she? He hoped not.

“Truthfully? Because I will not fully know the entire plan until I have crossed through that portal. I cannot tell you what I do not know myself.” Morrigan looked down at her child again, the being that was the purpose of all of this, of whatever would eventually defeat Flemeth, given that they could escape and gain enough time for him to rise to his full power.

He realized that it still bothered him that she’d walked away from him, that night before the battle, and had gone to Zevran. And that this child was the result—not this reborn Old God, not this being of great eventual power, but this very human _child_. He discovered that he wanted to know why. Why she’d gone to these great lengths, why she’d become involved with him when she could have gotten what she wanted from Zevran so much earlier and without all the weightiness, why she couldn’t have ended it sooner before he went and fell in love with her only to throw that love back in his face. “Why did you betray me?” His voice sounded harsher than he meant it, but he wouldn’t take it back.

Her eyes flared with angry indignation. “I did not betray you.”

He held his shoulders back and forced his fingers out of their frustrated fists. “You slept with Zevran.”

“I did not sleep with him. I did a _ritual_ with him, one that I asked for your help with and you denied me. Do not forget that part—you denied me, and I was forced to go elsewhere to complete what my duty dictated what I must. I fought at your side for a year! I put my life on the line to aid your quest! And then, the battle came too soon. I had no choice, and so I came to you. I needed you, yes, but I also did not wish to see you die. I did not _want_ to see you die. Zevran wished the same as I did. Together, he and I performed a ritual to reach a common goal: to ensure that you and our other companions lived. And here you stand, alive. So do not speak to me of betrayal.”

At the hard edge to her words, Malcolm nearly flinched. Then he glanced at the child she held. “That wasn’t your only goal. You’re holding the other one. The primary one. The reason you were sent with us at all.”

“What I wished to do and what I had to do happened to coincide. I would be a fool not to acknowledge that circumstance, as would you.”

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to clear his mind. “If Zevran was what you truly needed, why didn’t you break it off sooner with me? Once Zevran became a Warden, you really didn’t need me around. Instead, you let it continue and, for what reason, I can’t fathom—”

“Because I loved you!” Her face registered surprise at having said it out loud and quite forcefully, but she went on. “I willed myself to believe that I did not, that I could not, but there was nothing for it. And then the archdemon arrived and it was too late. Just because I happened to fall in love with you did not mean I could give up my task. I am more than that. You are more than that. If love must exist and be experienced, it must be but one aspect of our being as people. I would not trade what we had for anything, but I would not sacrifice myself to it, either. Nor should you.”

He stared at her, not quite knowing what to say in the face of Morrigan admitting to what she named to be ‘weaker’ feelings. “Do you still?” It seemed a fairly important question, considering who had accompanied him up to Drake’s Fall and what he’d been up to in the past year.

Her smile was small and slightly broken. “Not in the same way. We have changed, you and I, as much as I may have said we were the same, we are not. Considering what must be done, it is for the best.” She blinked, as if suddenly coming out of a reverie. “Now. There is something else I must show you. One moment.” Then she ducked into one of the tents that the less surly-looking Dalish woman had gone in. After a few moments, Morrigan came back out, child still in her arms, though he could’ve sworn the blanket had changed colors. 

He realized it was probably the other child, Zevran’s other child, the extra one who lacked the soul of an Old God and would probably be superfluous to her plans. It surprised him that she’d allowed the extra child to go full term, though he wasn’t sure if mages had the ability to end one life in a womb if there was more than one present. On seeing Morrigan’s face as she looked at the new child, he recognized the same look he’d seen on her earlier, and now understood why she had kept it, though it would be tangential— _very_ tangential—to her plans. “When we ran into Ariane, she mentioned children.” He laughed as lightly as he could, given the situation. “I guess Zevran gave you more than you bargained for. Not surprising, considering him. I bet you he’s proud, wherever he is in the Fade.”

Morrigan quirked an eyebrow at him, as if she were amused at a secret joke that he wasn’t privy to. It was not a look that he was unfamiliar with on her. He had obviously missed something and she found it amusing. He resisted the strong urge to scowl and settled for narrowing his eyes at her instead. “What?”

“Hold out your arms.”

He shook his head. “No way. I fell for that once with Oriana and I ended up watching Oren for hours. And you, well, you’re way more tricky than she ever was.”

“And you are infuriating. Please, just cooperate.”

“Seriously, me holding a baby isn’t a good thing. I mean, I’m good with kids, but that’s older kids, when they’re way less breakable and tend to talk more than cry. Usually. So—”

“If you wish to hold your son, I would advise you to hold out your arms.”

“I would—what?” The impatient anger in Morrigan’s tone washed over him as soon as he started to grasp the meaning behind her words. Then he lost the ability to speak and stared dumbly at her, as if she’d spoken a language he couldn’t comprehend. A nervous chuckle worked its way up from his chest when he decided to assume that Morrigan was messing with him, simply because he brain couldn’t handle the idea of what she’d just said being true. “Very funny. The whole reason you went to Zevran is because I said no. If there were already a child conceived, you wouldn’t have had to ask me or go to him after me.”

She huffed. “For the plan to gain the Old God’s soul to work, it required a child conceived by way of the ritual and through no other means. This boy was already conceived, probably about a week before the ritual is what Lanaya has figured, and I agree.” She cradled the infant securely in the crook of an arm, and then summoned magic with her free hand, a light cupped in her palm that gave off no heat, and held it over the boy’s face. “This is Cáel. That is what the Dalish call him, even though his real name is Cináed. He is your son, not the elf’s.”

Once the light illuminated the child’s face, Malcolm couldn’t deny the veracity of Morrigan’s words. Not after having seen paintings of himself as an infant and having seen various paintings of Theirins at the Palace. Either his brother had slept with Morrigan a week before the Battle of Denerim—now _there_ was an entirely absurd idea—or Morrigan spoke the truth and she was holding their son. His son, his _child_ , something he was never supposed to experience because of becoming a Grey Warden. Despite her task of needing to bear the Old God child, she had carried this child along with it, and the only reason he could imagine would make her do so was that because, once, she had loved him. And trying to comprehend that thought, as well as the idea that he had a son, made him lapse into silence. Maker, he had no idea what to say, and so he ended up saying nothing, instead just looking between Morrigan and the child—Cáel, she’d called him—and hoping it conveyed at least some of the things he felt.

“If you would hold out your arms, you may hold him,” said Morrigan. Her voice had lost some of its sharpness, so apparently she understood something useful from his facial expression. 

Hold him, right. That would make it more real, wouldn’t it? He held out his arms, and after a moment to check and make sure Malcolm wasn’t going to fall over, Morrigan deposited the child securely in the crook of his arms. Malcolm had no idea how something this small could feel so heavy and yet so light at the same time, but Cáel did. Then he realized that he was _responsible for this tiny person_ , and that perhaps, maybe, he really needed to figure out what his priorities were and where he was supposed to be. Or that he should have figured it out before this moment when he was holding a son of his own and he had no idea what he was supposed to do. Admittedly, he felt slightly giddy, because this was something that he’d never thought would happen. He looked over at Morrigan, knowing there was a stupidly happy grin on his face and not caring, because _hey, we made this awesome tiny person because we once loved each other,_ and _how cool is he_? But her golden eyes were distant and sad and not at all what they should be reflecting in this moment, at least not with the information he had available to him. 

The two Dalish women had reappeared and were by the fire again. One was preparing food, and the other holding a third, elven child, while Cianán slept in a nearby basket. Morrigan started speaking to him again, saying, “Panowen will accompany you and provide you with what help you will need with the child. I would rather sent Ariane as an extra guardian instead of Karam, but she has not—”

“Ariane came in with us, actually.” It was all he could think of to say, other than asking her why she was saying these things, like she intended on him taking Cáel away from his mother. He’d seen what had happened with his own natural mother when she gave up her children for duties and hadn’t wanted to give her children up in the first place. It wasn’t something he wanted to repeat for a second generation in a row.

“Good,” the elf with the outlandish hairstyle said from beside the fire. “Then my assignment is over.”

Morrigan merely nodded. “I will have to speak with her, then. And I will have to...” she trailed off and looked at Malcolm again. “Tell me, did Líadan accompany you? I would like to speak with her, as well.”

He felt as if he’d been punched in the gut with a whole lot of awkward. “Yes. I’m sure she’d like to speak with you.” About _what_ , he couldn’t imagine. Well, yes, he could. Wait, did she know about... and he didn’t want to think about it, even though he knew he had to. He shifted from foot and foot and entirely gave away his sudden nervousness.

Of course, Morrigan noticed, because Morrigan rarely didn’t notice anything. “I already know. We are adults. We are all capable of conversing as such, unless you start to revert into speaking like your brother.”

Even though her words carried truth, and he could see it in her eyes, it didn’t make him feel any less awkward. “If you say so.”

“I told you once that you must begin to live. I would not expect you to live your life pining away for me just because I am gone. That is not the man with whom I fell in love, that is not the man who fathered the child I chose to bear, and that is not the man whom I would have raise my son. I meant it then, and I mean it now. You must continue to live your life.”

It had taken him just a little bit too long to comprehend what her true plan was concerning Cáel, and as he held his son he knew he didn’t want to give him up for _anything_ and he barely even knew him, and didn’t want Morrigan to have to, either. He wanted to shout at her that she didn’t have to give up her son to him, or to anyone, but he couldn’t because it was hard to argue while holding a sleeping babe. “You intend to leave him here.” He kept his tone as calm as possible, not wanting to wake the child. He wondered if she’d done this on purpose so that he couldn’t get worked up, not without risking making Cáel cry.

Her gaze met his, her eyes sad, yet determined. “With you.”

“And not with you. Not with his mother.”

“He needs to be loved. It is part of the proper nurturing of a child. You can provide that. I do not know if I can while I am training Cianán for what is to come.”

“You’re capable of love, Morrigan. You’ve done it before.”

She was looking at him in that sad way again, the one that informed him that she believed he would never understand her. For the first time since he’d known her, he started to believe that she might be correct. “This... is not about love. If only it were so simple.” She blinked several times, as if chasing away tears—Malcolm couldn’t think of a single time he had _ever_ seen Morrigan do something like cry—and then seemed to straighten with newfound determination. “You should bring him to your camp. Alistair would like to see him, would he not? I’m sure the effort to keep his mouth shut on the matter of Cáel must have nearly killed him. Pity. I must go speak with Lanaya. We will need to activate the eluvian soon. If not today, then by tomorrow. Flemeth must be close. We cannot risk her interfering.” She spun on her heel, picked up Cianán and a sling and placed him in it, and then started for the middle of the camp. 

Malcolm wanted to call after her, but he’d caught the look in her eyes as she’d turned. She was done talking for the time being, it seemed, because her more vulnerable emotions were _far_ too close to the surface. And with Morrigan, the more vulnerable she felt, the less likely she would be influenced by any reasons but her own. But he knew this talk of theirs wasn’t over. It couldn’t be. As grateful as he was to have a child—something that still hadn’t entirely sunk in—he didn’t want his child growing up like Alistair had. He didn’t want Morrigan to go through what Fiona had. Something about it wasn’t right, and he didn’t want to take his son from his mother, even if it meant he couldn’t see him.

Then Morrigan was gone, over at the main campfire and speaking with a Dalish mage whom he assumed to be Keeper Lanaya, and he was left standing near the smaller fire and holding a son he hadn’t known he’d had. A son who apparently had taken notice and exception to the tension, opened his mouth, and started to cry. Andraste help him, the boy was _loud,_ and Malcolm had no idea what to do. He rocked the child like he’d done with his nephew years ago, but it didn’t seem to calm him. Cáel just kept crying and Malcolm felt like crying himself, and he threw a panicked look in Panowen’s direction when he heard her soft laughter. 

She’d handed the other child to Karam, and stepped toward Malcolm, her arms extended. “He’s hungry, so there isn’t much you’ll be able to do to comfort him at the moment. You might as well give him to me for now and go speak with the others you came in with. They’ll want to know. I will meet you after I’ve fed him. We need to work out specifics, because my daughter comes with me, and I’m of no mind to raise her amongst humans.” Panowen inclined her head toward the baby Karam currently held. “I am willing to help, but only for so long if I am to be amongst humans. Excuse me.” Then she disappeared into the tent again.

Bewildered and more than a little stunned, Malcolm wandered back toward the center of the Dalish camp, looking for someone familiar. He assumed the others would’ve set up a campsite while he was speaking with Morrigan. He also assumed that the campsite wouldn’t be within sight of Morrigan’s, because that would only add to how awkward this entire situation was getting. Then he wondered how Líadan would react and realized he had no idea how to even _tell_ her. He stopped and glanced back at where he’d left Panowen with Cáel. Maybe just showing her the babe would work, and then he could stammer out some sort of explanation. As he gazed over at the camp he’d left, Nathaniel suddenly appeared in front of him, nearly making Malcolm jump out of his skin.

“What do you intend on doing?” asked Nathaniel.

“Trying to put my heart back in the right place, for one,” said Malcolm. “Can’t you walk around like a normal person and not skulk in the shadows and scare the daylights out of people?”

Nathaniel ignored the question. “You know what Morrigan intends to do, do you not?”

“As much as anyone can know what Morrigan intends to do, yes.” Malcolm shrugged. “She intends on leaving Cáel with me for some reason, even though I think she shouldn’t give him up, and then going through the eluvian with her other son to do... something involving preparation for defeating Flemeth. She wasn’t really specific about that part. Doesn’t matter. She’s banking on there not being darkspawn wherever it is that she’s going.”

“Arlathan. The eluvian connects to Arlathan. That’s the theory I’ve gathered from the Dalish over the past few days that I’ve been here. They assume that because Arlathan was separated from Thedas and the Fade before the darkspawn were created that the taint will not be there. But what if it isn’t? If there is no Grey Warden nearby, how will they know? How will Morrigan and the child be protected?”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “Morrigan would be the first to tell you that she does not need protection or help from anyone.”

Nathaniel’s mouth twisted into a scowl. “And she would be wrong. She cannot go alone through that eluvian. It’s too risky.”

“It’s too risky for her to stay. Flemeth isn’t exactly an idle threat. She’s out there somewhere, and probably somewhere close. I’m surprised that Morrigan has waited as long as she has. She took a great risk in waiting.”

“That she did. She insisted on telling you about Cáel herself, and that you be the first human other than her to hold him.” Nathaniel smirked faintly at Malcolm’s surprise. “Didn’t tell you that, did she? Her sentimentality surprised me.”

“Probably surprised her, as well.”

Nathaniel said nothing for a moment, nodding instead. Then he said, “You cannot go with her.”

“Even if I wanted to, she wouldn’t allow it.”

“Your place is not with her.” Nathaniel’s grey eyes glanced behind Malcolm. “Your place is here in Ferelden, helping your brother and the Grey Wardens. Also raising your son, since she has made that decision for you and for everyone else, and will not be dissuaded.”

Malcolm shifted his weight, thinking that the decision wasn’t entirely made, not just yet. He needed to talk to her again, when she wasn’t feeling quite as vulnerable. The problem was that they were running out of time. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’ll talk to her again, see if I can change her mind.”

Nathaniel chuckled. “Good luck with that. You might as well try to change the direction of the tide.” Then, questions apparently answered, he disappeared into the shadows.

**Vespasian**

The Archon had not been happy with Valoel’s sudden decision to command his smaller flotilla away from the main Tevinter fleet to “take care of something.” She had never explained more than that, and had requested they dock near a Kirkwall Deep Roads entrance so that she could speak with someone. What person she would be speaking with in the Deep Roads other than dwarves or Grey Wardens—neither of which made sense to hide from him—he had no idea. He, on the other hand, had a target in sight—Drake’s Fall. It was a long-missing place of power and Vespasian fully intended on adding it to his empire. The backwards Fereldans wouldn’t know what to do with it and the Chantry would only destroy it. Better for it to be used properly, especially if he could find something from the ancient Magisters left there. 

The Fereldans would need to be dealt with first, as he was certain they would object to his claiming a piece of their land. His task in subjugation would be made far easier with them weakened from the Blight and recent civil war. He’d thought he would have had Valoel’s help, as it seemed that her mortal daughter was hiding at Drake’s Fall. Indeed, Morrigan had even already dealt with the pesky half-tailed dragon that had terrorized Fereldan’s northern coast and even some of the ships of Tevinter’s fleet. But Valoel did not reappear from the Deep Roads after two days, and Vespasian had ordered his flotilla to leave and rejoin the main fleet. Valoel, if she reappeared, could turn into a dragon. She could fly to catch up if she wished, or even travel through the Fade. He was not so delusional to believe that a god such as she really needed him.

The qunari, however, would be a problem. Even though their fleet was smaller and he’d caught rumors that they weren’t after the Tevinters but were, in fact, waiting for something from the Orlesians, one could never be sure with the qunari. Especially, he realized, if they knew the Archon himself was aboard one of the ships. Because of Flemeth’s diversion, Vespasian’s flotilla arrived late and in the midst of a storm lashing at all the ships of the Waking Sea. Not only did his sailors have trouble navigating out of Kirkwall and away from the Wounded Coast, but they were nearly hit by a fast-moving merchant ship that entirely ignored the nautical rules of right-of-way. Right on their heels—and an amazing feat of naval skill to maneuver a ship like that in a storm like this—came the qunari, their cannons firing on the merchant ship and entirely ignoring the Tevinters.

The Archon couldn’t have been more pleased. Sure, it was still storming, but the qunari had been drawn off by some unwitting captain, and his Tevinter fleet was free to move about as it would. Valoel had not even yet reappeared to shout at him for leaving her, and Fereldan’s coast was only a day away if they made it through the storm. As the night continued, the storm became more of a problem. Two ships lost their mainmasts from lightning strikes, leaving them wallowing in the water. One of those ships capsized, while the other limped along using its other sails. When screaming starts on the deck of Vespasian’s ship, he assumes that yet another ship has lost a mast or perhaps caught fire from lightning.

Instead, one of the sailors was shouting something about a dragon in the clouds.

Ah. It seemed that she had found them.

“There you are,” came Valoel’s voice from behind Vespasian.

He turned and faced her, his hand held over his eyes to keep out the hard rain. “You have wings, when you so choose. I decided you could use them because you could easily overtake us if you wanted. As you did, in fact.”

“Why the hurry, Vespasian? Do you not have confidence in me? Are you intending to attack Ferelden without allowing me to see to the safety of my child?”

Thunder crackled through the air and only Vespasian’s years of training in the Imperium kept him from jumping at the sound. “I would never put—”

“You do not understand. I had thought, as a parent yourself, that you would. It is clear that you do not.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“You were going to attack Ferelden whether or not I was here, were you not?”

“Yes, but—”

“No more. There are threats about that you will never understand, that you will never see, that you will never face. I have followed this since the beginning, I have watched each and every party involved throughout everything, through winter, summer, spring, and autumn. I will not allow you to ruin what I have worked for millennia to bring about. You have become a threat, Vespasian. That is simply not acceptable and it must be dealt with accordingly.” A flash of light and Valoel’s human form was gone, transformed into the iridescent crimson high dragon rising in the stormy night.

Vespasian was not surprised to find that his ship was the first to burn.

 


	89. Chapter 89

**Chapter 89**

“Once, long ago, Valoel and Samandirel existed in the same realm. Valoel was content to sit in the shadows as Samandirel attempted his first creation of children. Soon after, Samandirel became unhappy with what he had wrought and attempted another to replace it. Valoel, though keeping to herself, and without fanfare, brought forth her own children: Silence, Chaos, Fire, Chains, Beauty, Mystery, and Night. She allowed them to play with Samandirel’s creations, believing their peaceful nature would bring them no harm.

Valoel watched as her children, in their own power, earned the worship of the children Samandirel had created. Out of jealousy, Samandirel rained fire from the sky, opened great rents in the earth, and imprisoned Valoel’s immortal children. They called out to their mother, but he had masked their locations from her. But her children were smart and powerful and still spoke with the mortal children of Samandirel. They told Samandirel’s children where they could obtain the power to rescue them, that the key to their freedom rested within the walls of the Glittering City. 

When some of Samandirel’s mortal children ventured into his city, he cast them down, turning them from the children of a god into monsters. He took from them the gift of life, replacing it with a taint of darkness, yet left them with what called them to his city in the first place: the song of Valoel’s children.

And in the depths of the earth, the tainted monsters searched for the only song they knew.”

—from _The Tale of Samandirel’s Rise_ as told by Gisharel of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish

**Malcolm**

Eventually, Malcolm managed to find the camp Alistair and Líadan had set up. His brother was lounging next to a cookfire, stirring something that looked uniformly grey and disgusting in a pot suspended over the fire. From the small camp, they could see Lanaya’s fire, and Malcolm noted that, at some point, Líadan had gone over to speak with the keeper, and that now she was talking with both Morrigan and Lanaya. Alistair smiled up at Malcolm, and then glanced over at the keeper’s fire and chuckled softly. “The two of them, thick as thieves! This really is just like old times.”

Malcolm slumped against a rock next to his brother. “Maker, this is _awkward_.” He sighed. “I don’t even know how I’m supposed to tell Líadan about Cáel. Not to mention that I don’t think Morrigan should give—”

Alistair nodded his head toward the keeper’s campfire. “Morrigan will probably take care of that part herself, I think. The telling Líadan bit, anyway. Well, and the giving him to you part, too. She’s quite determined to leave him with you and her arguments for it are remarkably good. I found myself without any counter-arguments, for once, when she told me of her plan.”

“You would agree with her, even after what happened with Fiona? You’re the one who suffered the most because of it, out of the two of us.”

Alistair sighed. “It isn’t the same thing and definitely far from the same situation. If he stays with you, he’ll be legitimized and be raised as a Theirin, and not hidden away like I was. He’d have a better chance here than wherever it is that Morrigan is going. She has too much to concentrate on with training that other child of hers and fending off any possible threats to him before he comes into power. She won’t have the time or energy needed to raise a child that doesn’t have a destiny like Cianán, and she knows it. So she’s giving him to the person she thinks will be able to do right by him. I don’t deny that it must be incredibly hard and that she must hate it—and that she would never say that out loud—but she’s made her choice.”

“I take it you’ve already spoken with her about it?”

“Yes. She wouldn’t let me hold my nephew, though, not until you got a chance to.” Alistair returned his attention to his brother. “So, you met him, yeah? What’s he like?”

Malcolm blinked, trying to form an opinion, but he’d barely held his son for more than a few minutes before Panowen had taken him to be fed. Besides that, Cáel had been asleep for most of it. And yet, it was an experience he’d never forget, because it had been the very first time he’d held his son. “He’s kind of awesome, but then again, he didn’t really do anything. He was asleep. Then he woke up and started crying.”

“He’s pretty loud, isn’t he? He was sick one night during the trip here. Don’t worry, Wynne fixed him up. But, Maker, that kid was screaming.” He clapped Malcolm on the shoulder. “Good luck with that.” Then he peeked into the pot he was stirring. “I think the stew’s done, if you want some.”

“No, I think I’m good. Dry rations will be just fine. Why anyone let you cook is beyond me.”

“Líadan ran off to speak with Lanaya for some reason and I was left all alone and hungry since the other Dalish abandoned us as soon as we walked in here. I don’t know why I let you insult my cooking. It’s perfectly edible.”

Both mabari whined and pretended to gag before running off. Malcolm shot his brother a smug look. “Even the dogs hate it.”

Alistair rolled his eyes and continued to pretend looking offended. After stirring some more, he cast a sly look toward where Morrigan stood speaking with Lanaya, and then returned his attention back to his brother. “I have a question.”

“What?” Malcolm assumed it would have something to do with Cáel. He was wrong. 

“So...” Alistair elongated the word, a signal of his for some sort of verbal setup. “You really didn’t know that Morrigan could turn into a spider?”

“No. No, I didn’t. And I promptly forgot all about that after Líadan told me. So, if you’d like to shut up, I’m going to get back to forgetting.”

Alistair rubbed at his chin, unfazed by his brother’s discomfort. In fact, he seemed more encouraged by it rather than anything else. “What if she’d changed into a spider while you were... you know...”

Malcolm paled. “How can you even ask that question?”

“It’s simple curiosity. When someone’s a shapeshifter, you have to admit to wondering.”

“No, I don’t. Not now and not ever.” He ran a weary hand across his face. “Can we talk about something else? Anything else? For instance, what Nathaniel’s doing here?”

“I did hear that he was around here somewhere. He stayed after he went scouting with some of the Dalish before people went into the tunnels and before they summoned the varterral. He couldn’t come back out after that, so he stayed. At least, I think that’s the reason. I mean, there could be another, but it’s hard to tell with him. Why? Did you see him?”

“Yes. He wanted to know what I intended on doing.”

Alistair relaxed against a rock. “It’s a fair question, don’t you think?”

Malcolm shrugged. “I suppose. It isn’t like I’m just going to leap through the eluvian with Morrigan, even if she wanted me to. Which, by the way, she doesn’t. At all. She wants me to stay here with Cáel and live my life. She told me I needed to continue to live.”

“She’d be right. I don’t think she intends on coming back in our lifetime. You’ll likely never see her again, so it’s like she’s dying, really. She already knows about you and Líadan and is... sort of okay with it and moving on to being entirely accepting. I think she needed to give you Cáel before she could fully let go of you. And now that she has, she’ll move on to wherever it is that she’s going.”

“It’s still incredibly awkward. I mean, she was having my child, and I didn’t even _know,_ and meanwhile, I ended up with someone else, and now—”

“Nothing’s really changed,” said Alistair, interrupting Malcolm’s rambling. “If she had wanted you to be more involved, she would have told you. She had the ability to find you and speak with you and explain things—as much as Morrigan ever explains anything—and she chose not to. This is her choice. This might not be what she truly desires, but it’s what she has freely chosen, if that makes any sense. I, for one, would respect the choice she’s made. Maker knows I wouldn’t want to have to make the same kind of awful decisions she’s had to. I don’t envy her in the least. Well, maybe a little. The kids are kind of cute. I think I might like one or more of those, someday, if it’s possible. Also, don’t look now, but I think Morrigan is solving your dilemma about what to say to Líadan.”

That meant Malcolm immediately looked up and over at Lanaya’s campfire. The books the women had been poring over had been set aside and Panowen was now standing there with Cáel in her arms. There was another exchange between Morrigan and Líadan, and Malcolm desperately wished he could hear what they were saying. It _looked_ friendly, but he could’ve been wrong. Then Líadan said something, Morrigan another, Morrigan was motioning to Panowen, and then Panowen was handing the child to Líadan. On seeing that, Malcolm felt very strange. Sitting there in the middle of the camp, he wondered if this might be the most awkward moment of his life.

“She seems to like him and doesn’t look mad at all,” said Alistair. “However, I’m now jealous that she got to hold him before I did.”

Malcolm stood. “I should go over there.”

Alistair’s eyes widened. “Are you sure? They could be talking about women things that you’d never want to hear. They do that, you know. I stumbled onto girl conversations more than once during the Blight, and they were never pleasant, let me tell you.”

“I’m going over.” He needed to know what was going on over there more than he needed to avoid awkwardness. It wasn’t like the situation couldn’t be avoided, anyway. They were all in the Dalish camp, they were going to bump into each other, and there wasn’t a way to avoid the fact that he had a son by Morrigan. He approached Lanaya’s campfire cautiously, unwilling to interrupt their talk with his presence. 

Morrigan noticed him, but didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, she nodded to each of the women and told them she would go resume working on the eluvian, and if they wished to join her, they may. “Help would be appreciated and allow me to have it working before long. My mother approaches. I can feel it.” With that, Morrigan turned and headed for the promontory. She was, Malcolm realized, showing all business. Yet, he knew she was also very worried and feeling Flemeth’s threat and the desperate need to flee. She hid it well, but he’d spent enough time around her to recognize the signs. Even then, he still couldn’t fully understand what drove her. He wished he could understand her better.

“It seems my prediction was not what I thought it was,” said Lanaya, her words directed at Malcolm as much as they were Panowen and Líadan. 

“What prediction?” asked Líadan. 

Malcolm realized that she was still holding Cáel and had no idea what to make of that. Panowen smiled and made no movement to take the boy back, instead nodding toward the other women, nodding at Malcolm, and then striding toward the campfire a short distance away where Alistair sat and watched the goings-on. 

“I had foreseen that the Dalish would always watch over Cáel. I had thought that perhaps it meant that Morrigan would always stay with the Ra’asiel, or that after she left, we would continue caring for him. But she’s given him to his father, and now that I know what request Morrigan has made of you, Líadan, I believe you were the Dalish I had foreseen, and not my clan or any members of it.”

“But I’m a Grey Warden. I’m not—”

“You are Dalish. You always will be, even if the Wardens have become your clan.” Lanaya glanced over at Malcolm and gave him a warm smile before shifting the same smile to Líadan. “Even if you are bonded to a human and help care for his child, you are still Dalish. There are clans and families that go beyond human and _elvhen_ , and things that are far more important than any one of Thedas’s civilizations. No one can question what you’ve done to help the Dalish, not when your research into the eluvian will help make one work properly for the first time since the fall of Arlathan. Your children may not be elven, but your work will stand in for that contribution, and even have a far more lasting legacy than any elven child you could have had. Now, I must go find Ariane, and then go help Morrigan with the eluvian. In a little while, I believe she will require your help as well, Líadan, if you wouldn’t mind joining us.”

“I don’t even—”

Again, Lanaya interrupted Líadan’s protests. “Think on what I have said, and soon enough you will accept what the Creators have given you. Also, I suspect you both need to eat, given that you are Grey Wardens. This Nathaniel who has been staying with us he eats more than I thought any human ever could! He told me it was a Grey Warden thing.”

“It is,” Malcolm said when he realized that Líadan wasn’t going to reply as she gave the keeper a hard stare. 

“Well then, far be it from me to keep you from your food.” Lanaya touched Malcolm on the arm, and then did the same with the child and Líadan. “After you’ve eaten, please join us at the eluvian. There is much work to be done and we’ve little time to do it in.” Then she headed into the camp, presumably to look for the woman she’d said she would. 

“I don’t understand,” Líadan said after a moment.

Malcolm shrugged. “It isn’t like I’ve ever claimed to understand a Dalish keeper.” He frowned in thought. “Or any Dalish. Or any woman, now that I think of it.” Then he smiled down at her. “So, what was it that Morrigan asked you? I couldn’t hear what you all were saying from Alistair’s camp.”

She sighed and studied the child in her arms, who placidly returned her gaze. “He does really look like you. It’s kind of remarkable, and fortunate, I suppose, considering no one would believe Morrigan’s claim otherwise.”

“You also totally avoided answering my question.”

“Did I? I had no idea.” Líadan reached out and ran the tip of her finger over Cáel’s nose. “Okay, not so sure he’s lucky to get the Theirin nose. Though, I suppose it suits him.” Cáel swiped at Líadan’s finger with a closed fist, entirely missing, but he seemed happy with the effort and smiled at her.

Malcolm knew right then that he would do absolutely anything for him, and had no idea that he could feel this strongly about anyone. He’d thought he’d known what love was, what family was, but seeing his child smile for the first time, truly interacting with him for the first time, showed him an entirely different kind of love that he hadn’t experienced before. He wondered if Morrigan felt it as strongly—judging from how she’d looked at both children, he suspected she very much did—and how much it had caught her by surprise. He was shocked and barely standing, and he was far more used to dealing with vulnerable emotions than she ever was. 

Líadan smiled back at Cáel. “All right, I think I’m in. I don’t think it’s possible for anyone to resist a look like that. Even Oghren would be taken in by it.”

“Oghren’s a big sap, anyway. He just drowns it in all his ale. Now, if you could get Sten to come around, I think you’ve got something.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you kidding? Did you ever watch Sten with Anders’ kitten? He dangled strings for it to pounce on all the time. He was a sucker for that little beast as much as he is with the dogs and the horses. So getting Sten to like a baby? Easiest thing ever.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it, which I think will happen probably never.” 

“Yes, well,” she said, indicating for him to cradle his arms before settling Cáel in them, “you also said you never thought you’d have a child of your own. And here you stand, entirely proven wrong and now holding said proof. If you haven’t thanked Morrigan yet, make sure to thank her before she leaves. She needs to hear it from you, I think, even if she doesn’t think she does. In case you’re wondering where she is, she’ll probably be by the eluvian most of the night. However, dinner first, and I think Panowen has thrown away whatever horrific concoction Alistair made and put something on of her own make.” She then headed for the Warden camp.

After a moment of stunned silence, Malcolm followed, making sure to keep a good grip on the baby, because dropping him would be incredibly bad. But he’d had a lot of practice from when Oren had been a baby, and the muscle memory came back quickly enough. Once Cáel was asleep, he’d have to talk to Líadan to find out what it was she and Morrigan had discussed. He had a fairly good idea what it was, but he didn’t want to make any assumptions, because previous experience had taught him that doing so tended to have not-so-good results. 

Alistair was already on his feet and reaching for Cáel once Malcolm reached the campfire. “Are you going to let me hold him? I feel like I’ve been waiting forever.”

Shaking his head, Malcolm carefully placed the child in Alistair’s arms. “There you go, Uncle.”

“I thought he’d be heavier,” said Alistair, looking at the child in surprise. 

“Responsibility is shockingly light when it comes to actual physical weight,” said Malcolm. “Besides, I think one of our shields weighs more than Cáel does.”

Behind Alistair, Panowen picked up the shield Alistair had leaned against a rock, tested its weight like a warrior well-versed with one, and then nodded. “Not much more. He’ll be heavier than a shield in another month.” She put the shield back where she’d found it. “Now, I think the group of us need to have a chat about what we’re going to do about that child’s care. He isn’t old enough to go on solid foods, and I’m not going to live with humans more than I absolutely need to. I agreed to help Morrigan, and I care for Cáel like he’s my own Elin, but I have no desire to raise my own child in a human settlement.” Panowen looked from Alistair, to Líadan, and then to Malcolm. “Truly, no offense is intended, either for you humans, or for you, Líadan, because you living amongst them. This is a choice for myself and not meant as a judgement on any other. That isn’t the Dalish view you’re used to, I’m sure, but I’m also certain that you know the Ra’asiel to be very different.”

Líadan smiled. “Well, that’s entirely true. No offense taken.”

Panowen gave a resolute nod. “Good.” She turned to Malcolm. “What you’ll have to do once we leave here is to find a human wet nurse from your city. What was it? Highever?”

“I’m not sure if I’ll be staying in Highever,” Malcolm said, thinking of the half-demolished state of the castle. It’d have to be Vigil’s Keep or perhaps the Warden compound in Denerim, or even the Palace. 

Panowen’s expression darkened and she folded her arms over her chest. “You don’t think you’re going with Morrigan now, do you?”

Malcolm was startled by the question, wondering how she could come to that conclusion from what he’d said. He quickly glanced over at Líadan to find that she was watching him intently, waiting for his answer. Then he remembered Líadan’s self-professed worry that when Malcolm finally met Morrigan again, he would choose to go with her instead of staying. That even though she knew her fear wasn’t entirely rational and did her best to deal with it, it was still very much present. The sudden addition of a child into the mix hadn’t helped matters, he was sure. He sighed. “No, I’m not going with Morrigan. I was going to argue that she keep our son, but—” he held up a hand to keep the others from interrupting “—Alistair already talked me out of that. It’s Morrigan’s choice for herself and her son, I know. The reason I’m not sure about going to Highever is because the high dragon managed to wreck about half of the castle and Fergus will be rebuilding.”

“However,” said Alistair, “because of the dragon’s rampage, there’s a lot of refugees in Highever. That means there will be women looking for work, and some of them might be able to be wet nurses.” At the surprised looks from the others, Alistair rolled his eyes. “What? It makes sense. I’d have to be fairly dull—even duller than you lot apparently already assume me to be—not to realize that there might be mothers or mothers who’ve recently lost infants to a high dragon’s attack who would be looking for work.” He turned to Panowen. “The question is how long you’ll be willing to help out.”

“As long as necessary, given that you’re actively looking. I’d like to stay with my clan, but I know that might not be possible.” Panowen’s eyes saddened as she voiced the thought.

“Well, that part depends on quite a few factors,” said Malcolm, wanting to make sure that no Dalish needed to be separated from their clans because of his influence. “Highever has a large expanse of forest in the north that belongs solely to the teyrnir and not any of the freeholders or banns. I know your clan will need a place to stay over the summer and possibly the winter. Fergus might not be opposed to your clan staying in the forest, so you needn’t be far from them if we’re able to stay in Highever. I honestly can’t imagine him say no, especially since it was your clan who helped kill the high dragon. So it can be worked out.” He hoped. There was enough displacement going on as it was. There didn’t need to be more.

They continued chatting as they ate. Panowen had spread a bedroll she’d taken from one of the Wardens’ tents, one that Malcolm recognized as his own, and placed Cáel on it. The child spent most of the time looking like he was trying to push himself up on his arms and mostly not succeeding. However, he didn’t get frustrated and just kept at it, sometimes holding his head up to peer at the bright fire. The dogs trotted back from whatever exploration they’d been doing of the cavern and seemed quite interested in the tiny human introduced to their midst. Gunnar, familiar with the presence of humans this small from his experiences with Oren, gave the boy a sniff at his back, and then a lick on the top of his head, swirling up the reddish hair. Revas seemed more intrigued, sniffing and nudging and even carefully pawing at the child as if trying to figure out exactly how a human had gotten this small. 

The third time Revas tried to paw at Cáel, almost rolling him over, which Malcolm thought the boy might’ve appreciated given his attempts to do so himself, Líadan went over to collar the mabari. “Revas, no,” she said in a firm, but kind tone. “This is Cáel. He isn’t a new toy, even if he seems to think he is.” She let go of the dog as Revas sat, and then picked up the baby and settled him in her lap as she sat on the bedroll across from her curious mabari. “This is Malcolm’s son. He’s someone you’ll need to protect, okay?”

Revas cocked her head to the side and whined.

Líadan rolled her eyes. “Well, I say you do, even if you don’t like Malcolm that much because you think he takes up too much of my time and affection.” She smoothed out the hair Gunnar had made stick up. “And you might as well consider him my child, too, before you get yourself too bent out of shape. I made a promise to a dear friend that I would take care of him like I would my own, and I intend to see that promise though. So, you’d better get used to having him around and being one of the people you’ll need to look out for.”

 _So that was what Morrigan had asked_. Malcolm also realized that this was Líadan’s way of telling him, and the others present, what she had decided. From next to Líadan, Gunnar barked. Cáel seemed only a little startled at the sound and turned to look at the mabari. Gunnar peered at him closely again, and then licked his face, which made Cáel smile.

“See, he’s a true Fereldan,” said Malcolm, finding himself smiling. “He’s not even the tiniest bit afraid of the big, slobbery mabari wardog.”

“It’s when we find out that he’s afraid of spiders that he’ll really show that he’s your son,” said Alistair. 

Malcolm glared at his brother. “It’s a perfectly normal phobia.”

“You’re aware that Morrigan can shapeshift into a giant spider, right?” asked Panowen.

Líadan started giggling. “I already told him that. Morrigan never did. She just didn’t have to heart to because ‘it would disturb him so.’ As a result, he didn’t know until recently.” She stood up, depositing the baby carefully back on the bedroll and instructing the two mabari to watch him so he didn’t roll off. “And speaking of Morrigan, I need to go help her with the eluvian.” 

Malcolm and Alistair stayed put, making sure to stay out of the way of the small group working with the eluvian, and did their best to stay up until it was done. Eventually, Panowen took Cáel and went to go care for Elin and put both babes to sleep. Malcolm briefly went with her to get used to the routine, and then returned to find Alistair already asleep by the fire. Malcolm managed to stay awake a little longer, but he, too, succumbed to slumber, half leaning on Gunnar for a warm support.

_It was cold. Winter had long passed, but pockets of snow clung to the shadowy ground where the sun never touched. Another open field surrounded him, ringed by tall mountains, and in the middle of the field was a boulder. On top of that boulder perched a crow. It called to him and he froze, unsure if he couldn’t move because of awe or because the crow had commanded it. It called again, almost impossibly a laugh, rising in the air on black-feathered wings before it shifted._

_And then it opened its maw and he braced for a roar. Instead, he heard a voice, a familiar voice, telling him that she did so love to dance._

“Malcolm, wake up,” came Líadan’s voice. Her hand was on his shoulder, shaking him. “Flemeth is close. We’ve got the eluvian working. This is your last chance to see Morrigan.”

He sat up straight and rubbed at his face, clearing his head of the dream. “I dreamed—”

“I know. Morrigan and I had finished work on the eluvian and fallen asleep. Both of us were woken up by the same dream.” Líadan helped him to his feet. “As far as we can tell, the eluvian is ready and working and she needs to use it as soon as possible.” She handed him a flask of water, and then nudged Alistair awake with her booted foot. “Get up, your Majesty. Time to say good bye forever to your favorite witch.”

Alistair groaned and slowly rose to his feet. 

Malcolm took a long pull from the flask and wiped at his face again before handing the flask to his brother. “All right.” It felt odd, knowing that this would be good bye, that this would be the last time he would see the first woman he’d ever loved, the woman who’d turned out to be the mother of his son. “Where’s Cáel?” he asked as they walked to the promontory.

“Panowen should have already brought him over. I thought she might want to see him, one last time. I can’t imagine—” She stopped and took a deep breath.

He understood. He couldn’t imagine, either.

They found others already gathered in front of the eluvian. Lanaya was close by with her First, presumably to make sure things worked. Panowen held Cáel and Morrigan caressed the boy’s cheek before placing a kiss on his forehead and murmuring something. Malcolm’s chest constricted at seeing the farewell, wishing that the mother didn’t have to be separated from her son, but reminded himself that it was Morrigan’s choice, her decision, and she’d made it with full knowledge. Then Panowen stepped away, and Malcolm noticed movement in the shadows before Nathaniel’s form became apparent. 

Morrigan glanced up as they walked closer. “You have sensed my mother’s approach, have you not? Our time has drawn to a close, I believe.” She motioned toward the eluvian. “This will take me to Arlathan in Setheneran—we can see it. It will be beyond this world and beyond the Fade. Malcolm, I need you to destroy it after Cianán and I have gone through. And if any eluvians remain on Thedas, they, too, must be destroyed. If they are not, my mother will find some way to follow and find me.”

He nodded. “I can do that.” He knew the Dalish would hate to have to do it themselves, even as understanding as they seemed to be to Morrigan’s plight.

She turned to Líadan. “Of all the things I could have imagined would have resulted when Flemeth told me to go with the Wardens, the very last would have been that I would find a friend, perhaps even a sister. I want you to know that I am grateful, ever grateful for what you have agreed to do, and while I may not always prove worthy of your friendship, I will always value it.”

Líadan gave her a curt nod, her mouth pressed into a thin line and her jaw set, fighting against emotions that Malcolm was feeling as well. Morrigan nodded back, neither of the women hugging like Malcolm knew humans usually would have done. 

Then Morrigan adjusted the sling that held Cianán close to her chest, and looked at Malcolm again. “You must continue to be wary of Flemeth. Hunt her, if you must, to keep her busy. She might not truly die, as she has tricked her way past death and more, as you well know. I thought I knew what Flemeth planned. I thought what she craved was immortality. And yet I was wrong. So very wrong. She is no blood mage, no abomination.” She paused, visibly reestablishing control of her building fear. “She is not even truly human. The ritual was but a means to an end, a herald of what is to come, and you must be ready.”

Fear tumbled through him, wondering at what threat Flemeth really posed if he was still underestimating her. “What’s going to happen?”

“Change is coming to the world. Many fear change and will fight it with every fiber of their being. But, sometimes, change is what they need most. Sometimes, change is what sets them free.”

He studied her, seeing fear he felt mirrored in her eyes and the quick glance directed toward their son before she returned her gaze to him. She had her staff on her back, one hand curved protectively over Cianán, nearly ready to face whatever waited on the other side of the eluvian. Whatever it was, it was somehow less frightening than facing her own mother without Cianán being at his full power. But that fast look at Cáel made him wonder, yet again, if she truly wanted this. “And is that what you want? To be free?”

“What I want is... unimportant now.” She glanced upward, her eyes widening in alarm. “Flemeth is nearby. I cannot tarry longer. The time has come for me to go.”

Part of him wanted to go with her, but rest of him, the part that had matured and truly learned about responsibility, about obligations, about family and friends and love, knew that his place was here. So he didn’t ask, even though, as a friend, he did not want her to have to do this alone.

She noticed the look on his face and was able to determine the direction of his thoughts. “I must do this alone. I wish it were not so, but it is. I cannot allow you to make that sacrifice.” Her eyes flicked briefly over to Líadan. “Your life is here, and you must live it.”

“Will I see you again?”

Morrigan reached out to him and gently traced the line of the scar along his cheek. Then she stepped in closer and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. When she backed away, she said, “Not if you are fortunate.” Then she turned and touched the eluvian’s glass in several places, leaving ripples circles wherever her fingers had been. The surface shimmered and Malcolm could see a city in the distance. After one last look around the few people gathered around the relic, and a lengthy gaze at the son she was leaving behind, Morrigan stepped through.

She was gone.

Malcolm stared at the eluvian as the ripples began to dissipate. A grunt sounded from behind him, and he turned to find Nathaniel pushing between Lanaya and Alistair before jumping up on the dais and walking into the eluvian, following Morrigan. The ripples coalesced behind him, and the eluvian’s glass returned to its former opaque grey. 

“All right, I did not see that coming,” Alistair said after a moment of stunned silence. Then he drew his sword, the ringing against the scabbard overly loud in the quiet cavern. “Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen again.” He walked up to the eluvian, and like he had during the Blight, smashed the glass with the blade, quickly stepping away as the shards crashed to the ground.

Malcolm’s eyes remained on the empty frame where Morrigan had disappeared, along with her son, and Nathaniel. “It’s over.”

A hand grasped his. “Almost,” said Líadan. “There’s still Flemeth.”

He sighed. “There will always be Flemeth.”


	90. Chapter 90

**Chapter 90**

“When Valoel saw what Samandirel planned for her children, she swore vengeance. She turned from her own worshippers, killing the last one who dared to speak out to her. Incensed, she used her dreamer’s power and took to the mutable realm. Once in the Beyond, she was subjected to the harrowing call of her children, and their cries were filled with such sorrow that she could not bear to stay, and so she returned to the earth.

There she hid from mortals and gods alike, never again revealing what she truly was. She took many forms as the years passed—from dragon to shemlen to one of the People—and never remained in the same place for very long. Legends and myths chased after her and what the truth of her existence was. She took mortal men and had many mortal daughters—never sons. She spent her time attempting to divine a way to free her children from their prisons.

Then the first of her children was cursed with Samandirel’s taint, and the true scope of Samandirel’s betrayal was given light.

Valoel’s child Dumat rose from the earth, finally freed from his prison, but twisted with the taint. Corrupt, carrying none of the beauty of life, but still possessing of all his power, and filled with the drive to do only one thing—taint everything under Samandirel’s gaze. The God of Silence had been changed, transformed into a vile abomination that lived only for slaughter.

It took nearly two hundred years to bring Dumat’s rampage to an end.

Valoel witnessed everything, from the moment the curse touched Dumat and to his very end, slaughtered by the Grey Wardens. 

Unable to stop the taint, and as weak to it as her children, Valoel then witnessed the deaths of her other children as the Ages marched past, until she was left with only three: Lusacan, Razikale, and Urthemiel.”

—from _The Tale of Valoel’s Fall_ as told by Gisharel of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish

**Flemeth**

Flemeth left the Tevinter fleet burning in the middle of the Waking Sea. 

She left some alive, of course, not willing to risk tipping the balance of power in the north too far in the direction of the qunari. It helped that the pirate ship disguised as a merchant ship and the Arishok’s small fleet foundered off the coast of the Free Marches, and the ships’ crews found themselves beached in Kirkwall. That would certainly prove to be an interesting mix in a few years. She made a note to pay a visit in the future just to see what would happen.

Then she flew onward, toward Highever, leaving behind the bodies of those who had betrayed her—the Archon, some of his lackeys, and other necessary sacrifices. Nicanor, however, she had made certain he would survive, clinging as he was to a bit of flotsam in the heaving seas. He would be interesting, that one. Perhaps he could rise even further in Tevinter, turning over the status quo of the mages’ rule. Or perhaps not. The best part would be witnessing the journey of any attempts he might make.

Flying over Highever brought her the delightful treat of a templar army who mistakenly assumed they could take her Morrigan by force. Clearly, they had no idea how her daughter worked, how hard these Fereldans would fight to defend her. Not to mention that they didn’t like pushy Orlesians stomping around on their home turf in the first place. Already, Flemeth could see the Fereldan army marching through the rain from the south, making good time despite the weather, the vanguard of the army already piercing the templars’ defenses from a barely-defended rear. The Highever soldiers took advantage of the rear attack and began their own, adding a cavalry charge from a side flank, and then a hail of arrows from the still-standing walls of the castle. 

Flemeth swooped in closer for a better view, chuckling inwardly at the intermittent looks of terror, and throwing out gushes of flames at templars who did not look terrified enough. She found the leader of the Fereldan army. It was who she had suspected—Cauthrien. A good, strong woman. She liked her. Flemeth made a few more passes over the templars, adding to their pain and misery with her fire. It was the Fereldans, however, who would make up the difference and ensure the templars troubled her and Morrigan no longer, at least in this country.

As for Flemeth, she had an appointment to keep, even if she was a little late. Punctuality had never been her strong suit, but she did continue to make her best efforts.

She spun slightly north and into the mountains of Drake’s Fall, circling until she found the clearing she was looking for. It was easy enough to cast an illusion on the gap so the Wardens waiting outside the cirque could not see inward. They wouldn’t even notice anything was amiss, which was all the better for her. Then she landed in the soft grass of the clearing, waving off the rather startled varterral. It had done its job and could now rest.

She shifted into a crow’s form and perched upon the stone of a fallen dwarven statue. It wasn’t quite a rock in the middle of a Tevinter meadow, but it would do. The young man wasn’t without cleverness—he would catch the reference.

The dwarven sealing door opened and the young man she was waiting for stepped out, peering around for the varterral. He didn’t notice Flemeth. Not at first. He walked out of the short tunnel and fully into the sun, squinting in the brightness. By the time he fixed his gaze on the crow waiting on the fallen statue, more had stepped out of the tunnel behind him. Flemeth noted one of the People carrying her grandson—the one who had not gone with his mother to another place, a place where she couldn’t follow. While it frustrated her that Morrigan had escaped, she couldn’t help the swell of pride at the cleverness her own child had demonstrated. 

And they were safe, even if she hadn’t seen them.

The young man finally said something that stopped more of the others from coming out of the door. Then he peered suspiciously at the crow. She couldn’t blame him.

Flemeth shifted into her human form, the one of the strong older woman instead of the frail one. There was no need to hide behind a mask of frailty now. The young man was beginning to grasp at understanding parts of her true nature. She bent and picked up a dead flower from the face of the carved stone. The flower sprang to life under the nimble touch of her fingers, and the resulting blossom settled in the palm of her hand.

What to do?

She was too late. As soon as her mortal daughter and the soul of one of her firstborn departed the realms she could touch, Flemeth had known. And now she saw the impossibly young man standing before her as inconsequential. His path, while it bore watching because the child under his care was kin of hers, was not one of eternal importance. He was mortal, the child was mortal, and Morrigan’s fate was a... mystery. It intrigued her, for she had not experienced a true mystery for quite some time.

And how she did love her entertainment.

Flemeth chuckled, true amusement bubbling from her chest and past her lips. One of her firstborn had been saved, and that meant perhaps hope remained for the last two still trapped by Samandirel. Though she had missed seeing her child, both mortal and god, the happier of the circumstances put her in a good mood. A giving mood.

“It seems,” she said to the young man, “that I have arrived late. Some would call it fortune, some would call it fashion, yet I would call it fate.”

Malcolm stood with his feet set shoulder-width apart, his hand already drifting toward his sword, the picture of being ready to stand and fight, and yet she could see the tiredness around his eyes, and the weariness in his body. His voice, however, was clear. “You can’t hurt her. She’s gone. They both are.”

Her thumb brushed over one of the flower’s petals, the metal guard catching on it, tearing it, but she repaired it without thought, even as it tore. “Who said I cared to? You believed that book I left, did you?” She laughed. “You believed what I wanted you to believe. What my Morrigan wanted you to believe. Nothing more, nothing less. You needn’t take offense.” She hopped off the rock she’d perched on and approached him. As she walked, she tossed her free hand in a movement of dismissal, freezing his companions to where they stood. The young man immediately went for his sword, causing Flemeth to sigh. “Must it always come to violence? I wish you no harm.”

His jaw hung slightly open and he blinked in disbelief, exactly the sort of reaction Flemeth had been going for, and why she’d not yet paralyzed him. “You... you wish me no harm? You’ve been stalking me in my dreams for _months_. Over a year!”

“I was watching. I’ll admit to some theatrics, especially when I wanted to get a point across in the Fade, but you were never in any danger. I promise you, had I wanted you harmed, you would be maimed beyond recognition. And yet, here you are, not a mark upon you.” She paused, studying him again. “No, I have misspoken. You have that scar, the one from that injury you received right before you first met my Morrigan. Well, we can’t have that.” She reached out, and as she’d predicted, he flinched. Another easy paralysis spell and he was still. A touch of her index finger along his cheek, tracing the route of the scar left by an enchanted darkspawn blade, and the scar faded into nothingness. “There. Much better.” She gave him a final pat on the cheek, releasing him from paralysis, and stepped away. “You’ll also be happy to know that the issue of the templars marching on your precious Highever has been largely solved. Mostly due to the actions and fortuitous marching and tactics of one Cauthrien, and partly due to me.”

His hand rubbed at the newly healed skin on his cheek. “Why?”

“Why?” She smiled. “Consider it a favor. Besides, dealing with them was relevant to my interests at the time. Namely, they were in my way and I made it so they would not be. I do not like it when people get in my way.”

“What...” the young man trailed off and swallowed. Good, it seemed he knew when he was bettered. It meant he would learn from this experience. “What are you going to do?”

“Do?”

“We helped Morrigan get away. I know you know that. And you’ve got us at your mercy. Something you did rather quickly, I might add, like you weren’t even trying.”

Truthfully, she wasn’t, but she didn’t need to tell him everything. “So I do.”

Despite the rather chilly mountain air, sweat had formed on the young man’s brow, and he cast a worried glance back at the child held by one of the elves with him. Something within Flemeth found that gesture almost... touching. 

She smiled again. “What I will do is continue what I have been doing for longer than you can imagine. What you will do is live. You can do no less.”

Malcolm shivered.

“And do put a cloak on,” said Flemeth, starting a slow shift back into her high dragon form. “We wouldn’t want you to catch cold.” Then she took to the air, releasing the paralysis spell on her way, and was gone.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The codex entry epigraphs at the beginning of all chapters except for Chapter 76-78 and 88-90 are codexes from either Dragon Age: Origins or Dragon Age 2.


End file.
